


What Are You Up To?

by Wigfrid



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Depression, Distrust, Eventual Smut, F/M, Loneliness, Mental Instability, My First Smut, My First Work in This Fandom, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, head canons about vault dwellers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 81,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9359777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wigfrid/pseuds/Wigfrid
Summary: An eccentric lone wanderer buys Charon's contract and he can't for the life of him figure out why.





	1. Who are you?

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written fanfiction before so here's hoping this is well received. I've got a lot of ideas about vault dwellers and their culture/perceptions of personal space so I thought I might give this a shot. There's a good chance this could get pretty smutty. I hope you like it. :)

Maybe she isn’t the worst employer Charon has encountered but he’s starting to think she might be the strangest. Fresh from the vault, Eva is an obvious outsider in the wastes, her even layer of fat and ghost pale skin marking her more thoroughly then the vault suit she wears ever could. Even though she’s probably the healthiest person Charon has met in a long while, she looks fragile, blue veins bold under her skin. It isn’t a trait Charon wants in a person he is bound to protect. By the end of each day, Eva looks as if she could be taken down by a stiff breeze. 

Her odd appearance isn’t the most disconcerting thing about her however. It’s her mannerisms. She is…clingy. The first night after Eva purchased his contract, she seemed weary enough of him. They made camp and she settled down directly across from him, shooting nervous glances his way when she wasn’t staring into the small fire between them. They ate in silence and it was agreeable. Any employer was better than Ahzrukhal but a quiet one that had a relatively safe life? That was obviously preferable.  
Once the food was gone it became more and more obvious how nervous Eva was around him. She couldn’t sit still, shifting every few seconds and worrying a sickly pale lip with too white teeth. Finally, she seemed to gather up some inner courage and locked eyes with him. She had her knees pulled to her chest as if she were bracing herself for impact. 

“Does it hurt?” Her voice barely made its way past the crackling of the fire. Charon stared back, unfazed by her discomfort. She tried again. 

“Does your skin…does it hurt?” If Eva could get any paler, he’s sure she would. The firelight flickers in the pale blue of her eyes, spilling orange onto white until it nearly looks as if she could catch fire herself, embers striking and devouring her like fire on paper. 

“No.” He hadn’t been directly ordered to answer but he didn’t want to push her to that quite yet. He preferred to leave those orders unsaid for as long as possible. 

Eva nods, eyes back on the fire. A couple minutes pass and she asks her next question, voice low enough he can barely make out what she has said.

“Do you hate me?” She keeps her eyes on the fire.

Charon pulls in a deep breath of air, ashy and cold. He does, of course he does, but it is an empty hatred, so devoid of emotion it feels more like an old habit then anything alive. Fury does nothing but burn energy he could use on survival. Honesty helps him even less. 

“No.” It wasn’t a particularly convincing response but the tension eased out of her anyways and she nearly collapses back onto the sleeping roll beneath her. She sounds relieved when she answers. 

“I’m glad.” 

They don’t speak for the rest of the night. Eva’s breathing fades into the even pace of sleep and Charon tends the fire alone.  
…..  
The second night, Eva sits closer to him, moving a quarter ways around the circle of the fire. She says nothing about it so neither does Charon. She takes the first watch that night and when he wakes, he could have sworn her cot is slightly closer to his.  
…..

The following week, as they make their way from the Underworld back towards a home she claims to have in Megaton, Eva slowly makes her way around the circle. Five days’ in and he is baring the unsettling sensation of feeling not only the heat of the fire but her body heat at his side as well. She seems to be in good cheer tonight, recapping their day and picking yet another diversion to go after the next day. She had seen a building that looked promising on her way to the Underworld but had been too scared to attempt exploring it without backup. She lightly bumps her knee against his and grins that pale smile up at him. 

“That’s not a problem anymore.” She quips as she prods at the fire until it flips a log, releasing a flare of sparks in the process.  
Charon doesn't know what to do. People don’t willingly touch him. Ahzrukhal might have tried striking him if violence didn’t negate the contract but friendly contact was out of the question. He watches her wearily but she doesn’t touch him again, just settles back to watch the flames. 

“I love fire.” She sounds like she is talking to an old friend. Charon resists the urge to lean away. This is uncomfortable. 

“We didn’t have fire in the vault or, if we did, it was a disaster and I wasn’t ever allowed near it.” Her words are thoughtful, heavy with memories. 

“They were always so cautious. Even real candles were too much of a risk. The fake ones look nothing like this.” She holds her hands out towards the flames and sighs. “They weren’t warm.” 

Why was she telling him this? Charon isn’t certain so he sits in silence, hoping she will drop whatever she is trying to say. If she wants an answer so badly, she can order him to reply.  
He waits but she doesn’t push for a response so he sits quietly as she slowly unfurls her history to him.

She has been out here for around six months now, sometimes it’s hard to tell. She was banned from her vault because of her father but he’s gone now. She grows quiet at that point, staring at the fire like she is seeing something else entirely. Charon watches the flames as well, it’s easier then looking at this ghost of a woman at his side. 

Now Eva lives alone in Megaton. It’s obvious she isn’t eager to return; her description of the small community is scant in comparison to the vault. All she really mentions is that her house iss large and empty. He thinks he sees her lean near unperceptively towards him but he can’t be certain.

“I go to a couple different settlements for supplies and there’s some places I like to check in on, just to see if they’re okay.” She turns towards him, staring in an unwavering sort of way that could get her killed if it was directed at the wrong person. “That’s mostly what we’ll be doing.” 

The bridge of her nose and her cheeks are an angry pink. For the short time Charon has known her, Eva has been careful to apply a special ointment to her exposed skin before each morning, obviously trying to protect her thin vault dweller skin from sun damage. Clearly, it hadn’t been enough today. 

As she explains what her plans are for the following days, Charon tries to figure out just how difficult protecting her will be. Something that can be damaged from sunlight alone seems too weak to exist but she is still alive somehow.  
She had managed to hold her own against the few hostiles they have encountered so far, though her fighting style is more cautious then he prefers. It had taken them hours to take out a group of raiders wandering the area they needed to cross yesterday. When she had finally fired, her shots were good, a snipers aim, but the lost time seemed like too much of a sacrifice. He could have gotten them through the blockade in twenty minutes’ flat, he’s sure of it, but she hadn’t commanded him and he had been curious to see what skill had kept her alive this long. Apparently, it was more of a skill for stealth then anything tactical.

Eva stands to return to her cot, finishing off the last of the lukewarm nuka cola at her feet. She pauses and then slowly placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

“Good night Charon. Thanks for listening.” 

He could have corrected her, told her he was barely listening at most and wouldn’t be here if not for the faded document in her breast pocket but he doesn’t. What would be the point? It doesn’t help to antagonize his employer any more than necessary and honestly, he was thrown off by the sudden contact. The right words didn’t really come to mind. 

She returns to her cot after that, tucking herself into the ratty sleeping bag she keeps strapped to her bag until all he can see are a few stray locks of dark brown hair. It is the only part of her that doesn’t look sickly, as if he has a normal wastelander as the holder of his contract and not some pale cave creature with old world mannerisms that he can’t quite figure out. Charon rolls his shoulder, hoping to erase the phantom sensation of a too unfamiliar touch, and settles in for his watch.  
…..

By the time they finally arrive at Megaton, she has completed her circle around the fire. Now Eva sits directly beside him, her thigh pressed flush against his, her left arm grazing near constantly against his right. At night, her cot is directly beside his own and it isn’t uncommon to awaken to find her arm stretched out, her hand resting lightly on his arm. It has gone from the overly friendly actions of someone from a strange culture to incredibly suspect. 

She wouldn’t be the first employer who thought to use him for more than combat. One of the earlier ones he could remember, a female ghoul with a vicious sadistic streak, had considered it but upon learning that violence negated his forced loyalty, she had dropped the topic. The other had been human but too horrified at his own fetish to attempt anything. The only times he could admit his attraction to ghouls was after several heavy doses of jet but by then he was so strung out that even moving was difficult, sex would have been impossible. Still, it was a relief when the man finally overdosed. Several short-term owners later, he ended up with Ahzrukhal and that was the end of that. 

He wouldn’t have pegged Eva as one of these more troublesome employees. She wasn’t unattractive, definitely off putting with her veins on full display, but her features are nice enough and the general aura of health she possesses is a rare thing to find. It shouldn’t be too difficult for her to find someone to fall into bed with. Even if it was, she has enough caps to pay for a night with someone who still has all of their skin. Maybe it was the convenience? Charon couldn't be sure.

Reaching her home is a relief. Eva drops her pack with a sigh by the door and collapses onto the faded couch in the center of the room. There are stairs leading up towards a second floor and an open kitchen to his right. She was right, it was a very large place and he wonders what she could have possibly done to get it. He stands in the doorway, eyeing the house suspiciously until Eva notices and calls him in. 

“This is your house too now.” She smiles shyly and a knot of distaste forms in Charon’s stomach. If this isn’t sexual then he doesn’t know what is. 

“I figured you could use the room on the left and there’s a little makeshift shower in the closet over there.” She gestures to a door at the base of the stairs. “It’s not the best but it’s warm half the time.” 

She almost looks like she’s hoping for his approval. If she’s expecting him to grovel, to wax poetic about her generosity then she will be waiting a long time. Charon gives her a dead stare and a tiny flicker of worry crinkles her forehead. Her sunburn has started to peel and he can see little flakes of skin fall away when she rubs her cheek and breaks eye contact. Good. 

“Anyways, there’s food in the cupboards if you’re hungry and we can get some more from the market tomorrow.” 

She suddenly looks very uncomfortable with the extreme height difference between them. Even when she’s standing he has more than a solid foot on her, with her seated she is dwarfed. Charon knows he has no real power in this dynamic but he still enjoys the instinctive upper hand his height seems to lend him. It’s petty but he has been a slave for longer than he can remember, petty is all he has. 

As if she’s become aware of this as well, Eva stands and looks towards the stairs. “I’m going to go clean up. You can get settled.” She looks back towards him and her expression is carefully blank. 

“I hope this is okay. I don’t want you to be unhappy.” She kicks off her shoes by the foot of the couch and heads towards the shower room. Charon drops his pack by hers but waits until the door is firmly closed behind her. Maybe she fancies herself a bleeding heart but she still bought a person and all her pretty words and doe eyes aren’t going to make that not true. 

After a moment, the sound of running water reaches his ears. Another mysterious luxury. He briefly searches the kitchen, grabbing a package of dried meat and a bottle of purified water with another twinge of curiosity as to how well off this strange woman really is. There’s no way in Hell she’s as innocent as she pretends to be, surrounded by this level of luxury so quickly after exiting the vault. It’s something he intends to discover but she has his contract so he has all the time in the world to find out.


	2. Early Mornings and Sterilized Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva gets excited about strange things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one but I want to try to split up the chapters with important moments. Also looks like Word changed Ahzrukhal to Ezekiel in the first chapter so I'm sorry if that drove anybody crazy. Also thanks for the kudos, that was such a pleasant surprise! :)

Eva gets excited about strange things. It is early morning when Charon’s awoken by the sound of old wood creaking outside his door. He is up in moments, leveling his shotgun for easy access and throwing the door open as violently as he can. Stealth can be useful but there’s something to be said for startling an intruder who thinks they have the upper hand. He charges around the door just in time to see Eva racing down the stairs, bare feet near silent even in her hurry. She stops at the bottom, pressing her hand to her chest and gasping in air. 

“Geez, Charon! You terrified me!” She gasps, leaning weakly against the cupboard behind her. She glances up towards him and chuckles faintly, sliding down the rough wood until she’s seated on the floor. She’s still holding her hand over her heart but she’s smiling now, a bemused expression that’s just a bit insulting. Charon bristles. 

“What’s so funny?” His voice has no inflection, he can’t remember the last time any actual emotion has slipped in but it’s clear she can tell he’s annoyed. 

“Nothing!” She waves her hands, trying to placate him and that frustrates him even further. 

“I guess I forgot you were in there and then this giant figure comes barreling towards me” She snorts, rubbing the heel of her hand over her eye. “And my first instinct is to run even when I’m in my own house.” She drops her head back against the wood. “Shows how jumpy this life has made me.” A little bit of sadness creeps into her tone, bittersweet. Charon slowly lowers his gun. 

“Where were you going?” He’s suspicious, although it’s a useless reaction. Even if she was up to something, what could he do? 

Eva’s pale eyes look even paler in the dawn light but they’re practically shining when she answers. 

“I’m going to watch the sunrise.” She pulls herself to her feet, dusting off the faded sleeping clothes she’s wearing. This paper pale creature already looks so fragile, seeing her in casual wear and bare feet makes her look even more so. Charon looks away, suddenly feeling as if he’s seeing something he isn’t meant to. 

If she’s uncomfortable as well, she doesn’t show it. Instead she gestures for him, all sleepy eyes and too casual comfort. 

“Join me. It’s gorgeous.” 

Charon isn’t certain if she’s aware she’s made a direct order but he feels it instantly. The overwhelming impulse to follow her as she makes her way out onto her little wooden porch builds in his gut until it twists. He trails after her, angry that such a pointless activity has been demanded of him.  
He finds her facing towards the east, the palest bolts of orange just barely peeking over the horizon. The air is still cool and ever so slightly damp and he watches her chest rise and fall as she breathes it in. She catches his gaze and grins like a child sharing a secret. 

“The air never smelled like this in the vault. It’s recycled and filtered until everything smells empty, like dust if it were sterilized.” She shrugs, turning back towards the view. “I don’t really know how to explain it. That’s the best way I ever found.” 

Pale pink has begun to creep into the sky and she sighs like she’s lovesick. “It doesn’t really make much sense, does it?” 

Charon doesn’t respond. Her reactions make logical sense considering her background but they still seem intimate, personal. He doesn’t understand why she’s sharing them with him. He doesn’t like it. 

“I never even knew it had a smell until I went back.” That catches his attention but she doesn’t notice his intrigued glance. The full bloom of colors is spilling into view now and she’s rapt. Even her words are quieter, as if she’s in a church, witnessing something sacred.

“I can’t believe this happens every day.” The morning glow has dyed her skin, coloring her whiteness in until she almost looks natural, a wastelander in full light instead of a cave dweller peering out of the shadows. Charon catches the faintest gleam of wetness in her eyes and he looks away. This is too intimate. She is showing a level of weakness he has never seen displayed so freely. Instead, he fixes his eyes on the horizon. 

It is beautiful. The sky is nothing but pinks and oranges now, the pale blue of dawn nowhere to be seen. Small wisps of clouds are saturated with it, deepening the colors inside. Charon hasn’t watched the sun rise in some time now. He has been near it but always busy, returning from nightly errands for Ahzrukhal. He settles back, leaning against the house in the familiar stance he has always taken when forced to wait in a particular spot for long periods of time. He watches the colors fade. Admittedly, the view from his stance hasn’t been this pleasant in a long time.

Finally, the colors fade away, warmth starts to bake the moisture from the air and she turns towards him. It’s clear she began crying when he turned his attention away. Her bloodshot eyes stand out against her skin in a decidedly ghoulish way. She sniffs and gives him a watery smile. 

“I know it’s strange but I love it out here.” She scrubs at her eyes and Charon breaks eye contact although it’s obvious his witnessing her display of emotions is bothering him far more then it’s bothering her. 

“After everything, I can’t believe how lucky I am to see this every day.” She turns back towards the door, pulling it open and waiting for Charon to step through. “You don’t have to join me every time but I’m glad you did today.” Eva steps towards the kitchen, pulling out two mugs and sprinkling a pinch of dried herbs into each one. 

“It’s nice not being alone.”

Charon doesn’t know what to say. It seems like that’s starting to be a recurring trait with her. Each time he begins to think she might not be too difficult of an employer, she goes and says something like that. She’s unnerving but he knows how to hold his own in unnerving situations so he shrugs, gruff but enough of an answer to satisfy an unreadable gaze and sits. He drinks the tea she brings him, herbal and bitter but without the satisfying jolt of caffeine coffee provides and stays quiet.  
The following morning, when he hears quiet feet on creaking wood floors, he rolls away and returns to his sleep.


	3. Too Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva is almost always quiet but one day she is not.

Eva is unusually quiet. On more than one occasion Charon has turned a corner to find her silently moving about a room. Even in her heavy hiking boots she can stay undetected with ease. It’s becoming something Charon both appreciates and despises. 

When they are traveling, it’s immensely useful. Having his added firepower has made her bolder, they no longer take hours to creep past each enemy, but she still prefers a stealth approach. The last trouble they encountered, a lone super mutant dragging something grizzly and humanoid behind it, he watched as she crept unnervingly close and skidded a grenade past its feet without attracting its attention. It never noticed the explosive, didn’t get a chance to distance its self and died in a single blast. 

Charon appreciates that aspect of her silence; super mutants are difficult to drop with a shot gun and bullets are expensive. 

He does not appreciate not knowing where this deathly woman is going to suddenly appear. 

He is composed enough to hide his surprise each time she startles him but he is usually the one to move around unnoticed. It’s disconcerting to find it becoming the other way around. More often than not, he will get the strange sensation of being alone in the house even when he knows she is nearby. It’s enough to put his nerves on edge. 

It’s why he knows something is wrong when he hears her come home. 

Charon is in his room, a sparse environment with as minimalist décor as possible. The bed is a luxury in its own right, relatively soft with several mismatched blankets tossed over the surface. Eva keeps reminding him he can decorate, add things to make it feel more homey. It’s a frustrating topic of conversation for him because she never grasps how little appeal he finds in the idea. He is cleaning his gun on the small metal table he eventually added to appease her when he hears the front door thud open and someone stumble inside. 

Again, Charon is out the door with his gun readied in moments, though he doubts anyone would attempt to break into Eva’s house. With the Mr.Handy she owns buzzing constantly about, another mystery that startled him his second day by floating out of a storage room and exclaiming loudly that he must be the one who has been dirtying the floors so much as of late, and her new ghoul bodyguard, Eva’s home was not a place many people wanted to so much as approach. 

He is unsurprised when he doesn’t find an intruder but shocked to see his employer, curled over and emptying the contents of her stomach onto the floor. The door is open wide and, from what he can see, she has no obvious wounds. She doesn’t even have her usual gun, just the small pistol she carries when she’s not planning on leaving the town. He watches her try to stand, clutching onto the door frame for support and tip back over, her legs trembling too violently to support her weight. For a moment, he does not move to help her. 

After another bout of retching, Eva pushes herself up enough to look around and catches him standing at the top of the stairs. She grimaces and her expression, oddly enough, is one of embarrassment. 

“Hi Charon. Can you come help me out?” Her voice is faint, weak and ragged from stomach acid and her face is shiny with sweat. 

“I need to get over to Moira’s place but I don’t think I can make it the rest of the way.” Eva grimaces what might have been an attempt at a self-deprecating smile. 

Charon makes his way down the stairs, eyeing her. Is she drunk? For the time he has known her, he has never seen her intoxicated. She doesn’t even have any alcohol in the house, save the bottle of vodka kept with her extra bandages and stimpaks. 

“Wouldn’t it be better to take you to the clinic?” He’s close to her now and he can smell her, sweat sour with stress mingling with the sharp sting of vomit. It reminds him of one of his former employers the night he overdosed. He eyes her exposed arms but sees no track marks. 

“No, I need to get to Moira. She needs to see this.” A faint but rapid ticking is coming from the pip-boy strapped to her arm and he leans closer, watching her arms shake as she struggles to support her weight. It’s a pathetic sight. Charon crouches beside her, still searching for some cause of this sickness. Finally, he notices something strange. Her shoes are dark with water and her pants are soaked up to the ankle. Eva starts to tip sideways and he catches her before she hits the floor. 

“Are you …irradiated?” There’s no other open body of water nearby then that deep puddle surrounding the unexploded bomb in the center of town. Her pip boy usually goes mad whenever they pass by on their way out and he can’t see any other reason she would be this suddenly sick.

Eva snorts, “You got me. I didn’t mean to let it get this bad but you know,” she’s crumpled over Charon’s bent knee, limp and entirely still save for the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she pants. “shit happens.” 

Her eyes have started to shut and Charon doubts that is a good sign. Attempting not to jostle her too much, he hoists her up to her feet and begins to guide her out the front door. Carrying her would be easier but the effort to walk might keep her conscious a little longer. He’s not certain if that matters but he’s not willing to take that chance. The moment Charon fully registered the danger Eva was in, his contract started to take hold and now the urgent need to protect his employer is pulling at him stronger than any physical force ever could. It’s unpleasant to say the least. 

Eva’s head is drooped but she’s clinging tightly to the railing beside her, pulling herself along with each step. Halfway to Moira’s house, one of her knees gives out beneath her and the sudden drop makes her tip over and vomit a second time. Still, she only stops for a moment, dragging herself weakly back up the railing and swinging drunkenly around the mess.

“I’ll get that later.” She’s starting to slur her words. 

The fact that she’s concerned about leaving a mess shows how delirious she must be. His contract is revolting against their slow pace, sending sharp pricks of pain through what’s left of his skin. Charon scoops her up and starts to run. He kicks in the door he knows to be Moira’s shack just as her eyes drift shut and the two people inside both turn towards him, startled at the sudden invasion. The man stands straight, turning his gun towards the invader and if Charon has to drop Eva and strangle him to get by, he is more than willing. By now his head is throbbing with his failure to protect and killing someone pointing a gun at his employer usually does the trick. 

Before anything can escalate however, the woman watching rushes over, clapping her hands in an unexpected display of delight. 

“Oh, she really went all the way, didn’t she?” She’s grinning from ear to ear and gesturing over to a table further inside. “I told her she didn’t have to get quite so much but really, this will be so much more helpful.” 

Charon is lost but he spots a stack of rad-away where she has indicated and it’s enough to let him place her on the table and step away. Eva’s head drops to the side and it’s obvious she’s entirely lost consciousness. Charon watches as the woman, presumably Moira, waves something under Eva’s nose that manages to wake her and carefully guides her into a chair.

She questions Eva on her symptoms, checks her vitals and examines her eyes, tongue and the skin on her ankles that had direct contact with the irradiated water. She grows increasingly pleased, jotting down notes as Eva clutches her head and takes deep breaths, obviously trying to alleviate some of her nausea. If this mad woman doesn’t fix her soon, Charon thinks he’s going to snap but when he had stepped forward, ready to administer the rad-away himself, Eva had commanded him to wait. Her order fixed the distress coming from the contract but he is still frustrated. 

He glances towards the guard still standing near the door, his gun now lowered. The man shrugs, blasé, and turns back to watch the entrance. It’s clear Charon is the only sane person in this whole damn house. 

Eventually Moira takes out a strange serum and injects it into Eva’s arm. By this point, he can’t tell if Eva even notices the needle enter her skin but after a few minutes she seems to rally. 

“You are my super assistant. This was perfect, it’s all going straight into the book.” Moira looks gleeful as she tucks several radaways and rad-x into Eva’s still trembling arms. Eva manages a weak smile, looking at this woman who nearly killed her like a friend. It makes Charon bristle. 

He steps forward, placing one hand on the back of Eva’s chair. “Are you done?” 

The two women look towards him, seemingly surprised he’s still here. Eva then looks back to Moira who pats her arm and grins. “I am all set. Come back and see me when you’re up for more research.”  
Charon helps her stand and walks her towards the door, staring the guard down as they exit. He hates this place. 

Eva holds onto his arm the entire way back, frowning at the mess she left on the board walk but continuing on. When they reach the house, the front door still open and the Mr.Handy hovering agitatedly by the entrance, she lets him go and wobbles to the kitchen. He watches her gulp down two bottles of clean water and sigh. She grabs a handful of jerky and another bottle of water before collapsing on the couch. 

“Something sweet sounds nice but if I get any more radiation in my system, I’m pretty sure I’ll melt.” 

Charon is still at the door, glad that the Mr.Handy has already cleaned up any signs of her original sickness. He is incredibly irritated but feeling more at ease now that they are back in their house. He wonders when he started counting it as ‘theirs’. 

“Or ghoulify.” He watches her eyes widen at that, looking up at him sharply with a piece of jerky forgotten in her hand. 

“Do you think?” She sounds surprised. “Even though I’ve been treated?” 

Charon shrugs. 

Eva looks away, down at her pale hands and he watches her trace a finger over a particularly dark vein. She looks thoughtful. 

“Hmm.” 

She says nothing more so Charon walks away, leaving her to her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Moira but I died three times trying to get as irradiated as possible for that quest! I hope people are liking these, it's been really fun to write and your kudos have made me so happy. Thanks!


	4. Tarnished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon does not like Mister Handy.

Charon dislikes the Mister Handy. He has seen them at work before, dismantled a few of them in his time (exploded a good lot more), but he has never had to live in close quarters with one. It is incessant, buzzing constantly around the house with a level of cleanliness that more resembles fanatical fervor then anything that would be intentionally programed. Worst of all, it seems to have developed a strong distaste for him. 

Each time Eva and Charon return from a trip, the bot floats gleefully towards its owner, welcoming her home and offering up various pleasantries, usually starting with a glass of water and ending in a painful attempt at humor. If it’s possible for a robot to look cheerful, this Mister Handy has mastered it. 

How it reacts to spotting Charon however is a different story. 

It never seems to see him at first, too busy hovering around Eva like an excitable pet. Then it’s eye stocks swivel around and the metal shielding around it’s glass eyes contract in what could only be described as a narrowed squint.   
“Oh” it mumbles, “He’s back too.” 

Eva seems amused by the one-sided rivalry between her robot butler and her bodyguard, snorting at the obvious dislike in the machine’s simulated accent. She pats its hull gently and nods. 

“Yup, as always. You’re going to have to learn to get used to that.” 

The bot huffs, turning its eye stocks back towards its preferred person. 

“Yes, yes of course Ma’am but when will he learn to wipe his feet at the door?” 

She snorts and walks by, lugging her overloaded bag towards the couch to start sorting through what’s worth keeping and what she’s willing to sell. As soon as her back is turned, the Mister Handy whirls around, narrowing its eye shielding down to a point. Charon glares back. He knows it’s a robot and the response is useless but it’s so easy to hate this thing. He follows Eva to the couch, deliberately knocking the mud from his boots as he goes. 

The insulted ‘harrumph’ it makes is too satisfying to deny. 

Eva is smirking when he sits down. The Mister Handy is puttering around, hoovering up the dirt and muttering under its breath. 

“You’re mean.” She nudges his arm with her elbow teasingly. “He’s just not used to you yet, you don’t have to antagonize him.” 

Charon pulls open his own pack and begins sorting bullets. “I’m not.” 

The bot scoffs audibly by the front door. Eva hides a chuckle behind her hand and Charon shoots her a glare as well. “Though I wouldn’t mind pulling that thing apart for scraps. It would make a good number of bullets.” 

He can hear its fans whir faster with indignation as it makes its way back upstairs. 

Eva took a bit of damage this mission, several pieces of shrapnel from a nearby triggered landmine cut up her cheek as they dove for cover and the hypertrophic scars forming from the use of a particularly expired stimpak crinkle when she smiles. 

“I like him in one piece, Charon. He’s a lot more useful and bullets can’t tell any good jokes.” A chipper British voice wafts down from the second floor. “Thank you, Ma’am.” It sounds incredibly pleased. 

Most of the bullets Charon has sorted so far have been shotgun shells so the bot’s smug tone is easier to ignore. Still, it’s an easy comeback. 

“Neither can that thing.” 

He’s rewarded with another muffled laugh and the topic being dropped. They continue sorting in silence for several minutes. 

“Charon…” Eva sounds thoughtful. “Do you remember anything prewar?” Her eyes are fixed on a pocket watch they found early yesterday. It’s in surprisingly good condition, even maintaining a bit of shine through the years of tarnish. The gears inside could be useful but they will most likely sell it for scrap. She rubs a thumb over the smooth surface. 

Charon frowns, pushing the bullets to keep aside and brushing the ones to sell back into the bag. “No.” He doesn’t like this line of questioning. It happens often with his more inquisitive employers and trying to remember that far back makes his head ache in an all too familiar way. Eva has flipped the watch open and is slowly spinning the minute hand around its face. 

“Do you wish you could?” 

That’s new. Usually he’s pressed for details or ordered to try harder. Those orders are one of the worst, causing splitting headaches until he manages to pull some small fact from clouded memories. ‘Trees were greener then’ or ‘it rained a lot more’. He clears his throat, though it does nothing for the deep rasp of his voice. 

“I don’t. It doesn’t matter.” 

He sounds angrier then he expected. That has been happening more often as of late. Little hints of inflection, mostly annoyance, have been slipping into his tone without his intending them too. He doesn’t know what’s causing it but he expects it’s purely because he has been speaking more then he’s used to. Something’s bound to slip in occasionally. 

Eva nods, the glass over the watch face has long since shattered but a few shards still extend around the rim. She nicks herself on one and they both watch as the wound slowly closes up, leaving a small raised scar behind. The stimpak must still be in her system. Eva rubs the new scar against the side of her hand mindlessly. 

“Okay.” She places the watch carefully in her ‘to keep’ pile. 

“Sometimes I think I can imagine it perfectly. The vault always tried so hard to simulate it but I think it distorted over time.” 

It was hot today so Eva is wearing lighter pants, old tough fabric that’s been haphazardly chopped off at the knee. He can see several scars knitting across her skin, jagged and dark against her near translucent skin.

“I guess we distorted over time too.” 

She looks up at him suddenly, pale eyes focusing on his in her usual forward way. With eye contact, she feels unnervingly close, though he hadn’t noticed her proximity until now. The sensation of her thigh pressing against his has become a daily thing, something he has learned to ignore. Now he’s uncomfortably aware of it but pulling away feels like a sort of submission and he will not be intimidated. Charon still isn’t certain if her strange lack of personal space is a power play but if it is, he’s not going to lose. 

“Did you know I’m not even originally from the vault?” She’s watching for a reaction, he’s sure of it, but she isn’t going to get one. He doesn’t care about her or her past, the only thing that really intrigues him is whatever she is hiding that got her so much in such a short span of time. He stares back down, impassive. 

“My dad brought me there as a baby but I don’t even have their genetics. This,” she gestures down at herself, “is all environmental.” 

She looks back towards him with an unreadable energy lighting her eyes. “They can’t have originally looked like this, right? The lights must have been designed to make people look normal at first but we never tanned from light exposure and everything was so dark.” She looks towards the door, where evening light is spilling through the open frame. 

“I was blinded for a solid day when I left.” She chuckles but it’s humorless now. “I climbed under a rock and hid.” She’s watching him so closely. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I look like I came out from under a rock and I actually did.” 

Eva snorts and suddenly the electric energy in the room dissipates. She’s back to her usual self, laughing quietly as she faces towards the dusky light. 

“We were supposed to be a preservation of humanity but it was pointless.” Eva catches up the pocket watch, rubbing at the surface like the tarnish might just wipe away. “Humanity still exists,” She glances back at him, smiling like they’re sharing a joke. “we were just a faded memory that even we didn’t remember.” 

Eva stares down at the watch for another moment, her brow crinkled, then pushes it into the opposite pile. She pulls a fistful of bullets from the bottom of her bag and begins to sort them. 

Tomorrow Eva and Charon bring the rest of what they found down to the market to sell. The watch sells for twenty caps and Eva tucks them away without a second glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always had this idea that the old stimpaks probably expired at some point and no longer work as well as they used to. Also I had no idea that I had gotten comments on my story! Thank you so much! It's so exciting knowing that there are people out there enjoying what I've written. :) I hope this new chapter didn't disappoint.


	5. Withdrawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon can hear her crying through her door.

Charon can hear her crying through the door. It’s been going on for hours. 

He first notices her absence this morning when she doesn’t watch the sunrise. He is awake early and eating a Salisbury steak cold from the packet. The gravy has congealed but he doesn’t bother to warm it. The flavor is decent enough on its own, the taste almost soothing in its familiarity. He had briefly considered waiting until the sun had risen before venturing out into the rest of the house but that felt cowardly. Charon shouldn’t be cowed by the chance of another strange encounter with his employer. He’s already had more than enough to get accustomed. 

He waits but the sun rises and she never appears. He isn’t aware of her ever having forgotten this particular part of her routine and an alarm bell begins to ring in his head as it grows later. Eventually he gives into to it, heading up towards the door opposite his. 

Charon has never been inside Eva’s room, only seen glimpses of its contents when she’s exiting. The door is never left open and he’s not stupid enough to pry. He wants to appease his curiosity about how she’s obtained all she has but there are other ways. Testing the patience of an employer he cannot figure out won’t be his first choice. 

As he approaches the door, Charon can make out tiny sounds through the wood. It is enough to assure him she isn’t dead but as he listens, it becomes more and more obvious what they are. Eva is crying, heaving gasps mixed with the faint whimpers of attempting to hold back something louder. He steps away quickly. If she was injured, she wouldn’t be attempting to hold back the sound. He has seen her wounded before and, while she is unusually silent about it, she has no qualms in asking for help.  
This must be something else. Another emotion he has no interest in investigating further. Charon walks away and returns to his meal. She’ll come out eventually. Until then he might as well enjoy having the house to himself. 

Two hours pass and Charon is no longer enjoying himself. 

He has had to pass by her room several times now and each time he can just make out her faint sobs as he goes by. While he isn’t particularly concerned about her, having a comatose employer limits him as well. He can’t exactly wander off on his own and being tied to someone too far gone to function is like being tied to a corpse. Still, there’s nothing he can do about it unless he wants to interact with someone this emotional and he definitely does not. 

Another hour passes. Slowly. 

By now he is getting angry. He has had his fair share of waiting but this is uncertain. He doesn’t know when this might stop, if this will ever stop. In the passing months, Charon has never heard Eva cry. He has seen her do so but it is always faint, the mild tears of someone overwhelmed with emotion but not out of control of it. This endless sadness is unusual. 

Charon makes it through half a weapon modification and 45 minutes of choked back whimpers until his control breaks. When he returns to her closed door, his steps are heavy, partially out of anger and partially in an attempt to warn her of his approach. Maybe she will be able to pull herself together before he opens the door and spare him the discomfort of seeing her choke back tears. 

He knocks three times. Roughly. 

There is no response from within the room, the steady pace of her crying doesn’t even falter. He knocks again, agitated but receives no response. The handle is unlocked when he tries it and he hates his hesitance as he pushes the door open.  
The sight is anticlimactic. 

For a second, Charon doesn’t even see her, just am empty room scattered with various paraphernalia. Faded posters cover over half of her walls and small toys are placed on an old dresser along with an assortment of shiny rocks. Her laser rifle is sitting on a little wooden table next to an open package of fancy lad snack cakes. The ragged blanket she uses for traveling is slung over a chair. 

Eventually he spots her, a tiny curled ball tucked away between the dresser and table, nearly hidden. She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even seem to notice his entering the room. Eva’s head is tucked into her arms, her brown hair spilling over in tangled waves. She is still wearing her bedclothes. Her feet are bare, the tips of her toes pink from the late morning chill. 

Slowly, Charon approaches. The fact that she doesn’t even seem aware of his presence concerns him. His contract flairs up at the possibility of an actual problem. He doesn’t want to touch her so he waits as he reaches her side, standing directly in front of her. If her eyes are open, she should be able to see the scuffed tips of his boots. 

“Eva.” 

She doesn’t answer. He tries again, louder. 

“Eva!” 

He does finally get a response but not the one he would prefer. She curls up tighter, the choked whimpering escalating for just a moment. 

Charon turns and sits on the edge of her bed. He feels like he is too big for this space, a giant invading a child’s room. He waits. 

Another hour passes. 

He watches the seconds tick by on the upended screen of her pip-boy. Late morning sun finally starts to warm the room but her toes stay red. Sixteen minutes in, Eva has a hiccupping fit. Thirty-two and she starts to shiver. Fifty-nine minutes and he can’t stand it anymore. He stands, hesitates, pulls back and then finally drops down to her side. 

“Eva.” His voice is low but stern, like he’s commanding an animal instead of addressing his employer. He grabs her arm. It’s cold and small, too smooth under his ruined skin. It feels like he might break something. 

She finally looks up when he begins to shake her. Her face is the picture of misery, eyes so bloodshot they look burned, obvious tear tracks down her impossibly pale skin. Charon hadn’t realized she had any pigment in her skin but she must because she is even paler, veins so bold they look like worms boring through her flesh. Her nose is red and runny. She is clearly not a pretty crier. 

“Charon?” Eva’s voice crackles when she speaks. It sounds like she’s been screaming. 

“You have been crying for four hours.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t want to ask her why, isn’t willing to attempt to provide comfort. He can’t exactly command her to stop but that’s obviously what he’s attempting to do. He waits for a response. 

“I…what are you doing in here?” She doesn’t look angry, more confused. His still has a tight grip on her arm and he can feel her trembling, sharp convulses that make her muscles tighten and her skin goosepimple beneath his hand.

“You never left your room.” Is she delirious? She looks it, she’s watching his face but it’s obvious her focus is going in and out. Her breathing is erratic as well, changing from slower more normal breaths to short, shallow hitches.  
Eva nods slowly, acknowledging his words if not understanding them. She focuses in on a spot on his left shoulder. 

“I…I’m not feeling too well today.” The words sound dreamy, as if she isn’t particularly sure of them. Charon waits, gripping her arm a little tighter. The contact seems to be the only thing keeping her from pulling back into whatever world she was lost in. 

“We..um..” she chokes on her words slightly, hiccupping and swallowing roughly. “We had anti-depressants in the vault. I think…” She rubs her eyes with her left hand, deliberately not moving the arm Charon is holding. “I think I’m just not used to not having them yet.” She stares down at the table leg closest to her as if whatever she wants to say is etched into the wood. 

Oh. 

Charon says nothing and she eventually continues. 

“I’m sorry. This happens sometimes.” She has started to lean into his touch and the sheer neediness of it makes him want to draw away but he’s unwilling to face the consequences. If this is enough for her than he can handle it, if he were to withdraw, she might order something more extreme and the idea of it churns in his gut. Eva sniffs and sits up a bit more, placing her hand over his. The pads of her fingers are calloused but they still feel so much smoother then his, so much more human. 

“I just need some time. You can go do what you want, I’ll try to pull myself together.” She gives him the shakiest smile he’s ever seen and then pulls her arm away, curling back into the ball he originally found her in. He waits for her crying to resume but it doesn’t. Eva stays quiet, tense but no longer shuddering. Charon stands to go. This seems like the best he will get out of her. If what she says is true, she will not be so incapacitated forever. He just needs to wait it out. He pulls the door shut behind him. He thinks he might have heard something that sounds like his name, something that sounds like thank you but he can’t be sure. 

He doesn’t see Eva for the rest of the day but when he hears quiet footsteps the following morning, creeping softly towards the front door and a better view of the sunrise, a knot in his stomach fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Fallout Shelter, the little vault dwellers sometimes say that they love their antidepressant or, if you send them out on missions, that they miss it. I figure with Eva's lack of vitamin d and being accustomed to having an emotional aid her entire life, she probably would have some bouts of depression. ( I don't think there's anything wrong with antidepressants, I love mine. I just think it would be very hard transitioning from having an emotional aid constantly available to completely losing the option. ) Thank you so much for all the encouragement! It means the world to me :),


	6. Heat On Impact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon gets wounded during their travels.

Charon’s been shot. 

They were scouting a new part of downtown D.C and wandered into a trap. Eva managed to duck behind a dumpster but Charon was too far away. A bullet clipped his shoulder as he followed her down. A moment passes where he can only hear their breathing, amplified by the adrenaline and the metal they are crouched behind. He hears the raiders as they approach, searching for their victims, psycho deepened voices snarling vague threats, and he knows they can’t wait. He tries to catch Eva’s gaze, tries to communicate non-verbally that they need to run but she’s staring at his wound in shock. He doesn’t look, can’t tell if it is as bad as her expression suggest. 

The pain hasn’t kicked in, just the impact and the heat. He can’t tell if the bullet has passed through entirely so a stimpak is out of the question. Instead, he grabs her wrist with his good arm and starts to run. Eva stumbles at first but she comes to quickly enough, soon almost outpacing him as they race away from the voices still shouting behind them. They scramble over a heap of rubble, Eva drops to her feet in a crouch but Charon is thrown off by his weakened arm and stumbles to his knees, grunting at the rough impact. Eva shoots him a worried look and then takes off, sprinting with quiet feet towards an open building. He struggles to his feet and follows suit. 

The building is barely standing. The ceiling has collapsed, filling the room almost completely with rubble. Eva is already climbing up the collapsed floor to the second story, picking out solid hand holds like it’s second nature. It’s become obvious throughout their travels that her best survival skill is her ability to escape quickly and quietly but he’s never seen it so thoroughly put to the test. She slips over the edge and vanishes and if he hadn’t seen her make her way up it, Charon wouldn’t have even considered her escape route an option. 

Following her is difficult. His left arm is fine but the bullet wound has numbed his right to the point of uselessness. Even if he wanted to use it, he couldn’t. For now, it is nothing but dead weight at his side. Attempting to adjust to his compromised sense of balance, Charon starts up after his employer. With the raiders not too far away and the scent of blood hanging heavy in the air, his command to protect is going mad. She has gotten too far away, he can’t even see her, and the uncertainty of her fate is twisting in him, pushing him up the climb with raising urgency. 

“Eva?” He hisses, voice low but the need to be certain she is still nearby driving it out of him. He struggles up another portion of the rubble, panting harshly. He thinks his fingers might be wet but he can’t be sure. Finally, he gets his answer in the form of a rope dropping silently down beside him. Despite himself, Charon grins, the urgency of the situation pushing the reaction to the surface. She’s clever, he’ll at least admit that much. 

He grabs the rope, twisting it twice around his good hand and climbs. Charon is lifting himself up over the edge, a wide-eyed Eva pulling desperately at his arm, just as aggravated voices begin to echo down the alleyway outside. He crumples to his knees and twists, pushing his back up against a still standing wall and trains his breathing to be quiet while he listens. 

Someone is shouting outside, a deep female voice slurring from the psycho. Another voice answers, higher and less intoxicated. He can’t make out the words but she sounds frustrated with the first speaker. The strung-out voice responds, furious and loud enough to make out a couple words, ‘fault’ and ‘lost.’ Almost instantly, the voices descend into chaos, several male speakers joining in, each clearly agitated. 

It seems their escape has incited a fight within the group, though the unusual gruffness of the majority of the voices hints that the drug may be doing most of the instigating. Eventually the voices fade away and Charon can relax, falling back further against the concrete behind him. He wants nothing more than to rest but small hands are gripping his arm to the point of pain and he opens his eyes (when did they close?) to watch his employer swing her leg over his. Suddenly she is straddling him and he has a blurry thought that she’s attempting to initiate something. 

For a brief moment, he wonders just how bad that would be. His fingers are now obviously wet and he feels drunk from the loss of blood and the left-over adrenaline slowly draining from his system. He tries to move his arm and scoffs. Fucking’s not really a possibility with one limp entirely out of commission and barely enough energy to use the rest. This is clearly a survival response. He’s still alive and an old instinct wants to take full advantage of that fact. Charon knows this but something still stirs in him when he feels both of her thighs pressing against his and there’s a flicker of disappointment when she finishes the motion and settles down at his right side. 

Later he will deny this but if he had still had any strength left in his arms, he just might have tried to pull her back. 

Eva is oblivious to all of this. Her eyes are trained on the bullet hole in his armor and she’s unbuckling his shoulder platting with shaking hands. She slides the straps of his pack off his shoulders and the instant relief of the loss of weight is glorious. He hisses when he feels her fingers near the wound but bites down any protest. They need to know if the bullet is still lodged inside him before they can use a stimpak and, with the amount of blood he’s sure he’s lost, the sooner the better. 

When Eva sighs, he knows it’s been a clean shot and he barely notices the sting of alcohol being poured over the open wound. The pain has begun to kick in now but it’s deep and so much stronger that nothing else really matters. He doesn’t even realize she’s administered the medicine until the unnerving sensation of skin knitting together takes over the aching heat in his shoulder. She doesn’t look away from the wound until its done, tracing light fingers over the new knotted scar the stimpak has created. 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t get any worse.” She finally looks up at him and he is too tired to look away, too weak to break eye contact. Small crumbs of rubble drop from the ceiling but otherwise it is quiet. Everything Eva is feeling is clear as day, worry and relief and even affection flickering across her face like racing shadows. It is raw and open, a fresh wound exposed to air, pale skin under sunlight. 

Eva is clearly watching his expressions too and he doesn’t have the energy to disguise anything he might not want her to see. Pain, weariness, weakness he would otherwise conceal must be plain as day on his face. He can barely bring himself to care. Eventually exhaustion overcomes him and he lets his eyes drift shut. As everything fades away, he thinks he hears her sigh.

.....

When Charon wakes, he finds Eva curled close against him. She is huddled over her pip-boy and he can hear the faint strains of old music crackle out from its muffled speakers. A woman is singing about doing anything for her love but it sounds hopeless, one-sided and desperate. He’s heard it a thousand times before, the gentle strains wafting through abandoned radios in empty houses, over the rowdy bustle of a crowded bar. Already he has heard it drifting up from her wrist. 

What he has yet to hear is Eva singing quietly along. 

Her voice is faint, even softer then the radio but clear. She isn’t the best singer but it’s gentle and a little scratchy at the deeper notes. Mixed with the old sounds of the building, metal slowly shifting and concrete steadily falling away, it’s peaceful. She looks up when the song ends and hands him an open can of water by her side. She watches him as he drinks it and places a box of snack cakes in his lap when he finishes. Her expression is stoic. 

The pastries taste stale and sickly sweet. He eats every one. 

“I like that song.” Eva’s voice is unusually emotionless. “I heard it for the first time a day after I left the vault. She’s so loyal and determined.” 

Late afternoon light filters through a shattered window across the room. Charon watches dust swirl through the beams like little flecks of gold. 

“It made me feel like I could do anything if it was for someone who mattered to me. When I was searching..” her voice stops, stutters. 

The food feels uneasy in Charon’s stomach, too sweet and light, as if he’s swallowed sugared air. 

“... searching for my dad, it helped a lot.” She plucks a crumb of pastry from Charon’s leg and flicks it over the yawning hole in front of them. 

“I still like it, even if it doesn’t matter anymore.” 

Another song starts to play, a man singing about uncertainty. It sounds eerily similar. Charon shifts, rolling his shoulder experimentally and when he finds it stiff but useable, he reaches across her to grab a can of pork n’ beans from her pack. He doesn’t bother pulling further away as he eats. He doesn’t have the energy. 

The afternoon fades into night and the radio plays on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Researching what it feels like to be shot by a bullet was interesting. I hope I never find out if what I wrote was accurate! 
> 
> I hope you like this next chapter and thank you so much for the comments and kudos you've given me! They really make it exciting to write more knowing people are interested in reading it. :)


	7. Cold Toes And Casual Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva is acting stranger then usual.

Eva has been acting strange for the last week. 

Ever since Charon was shot, she’s been watching him closely, shooting unreadable glances his way before each decision, checking in on him after each maneuver. He isn’t certain if she’s worried or lost faith in his ability to take care of himself but her constant surveillance has begun to drive him up a wall. He’s already wanting more space from her, the memory of that fight, the survival-drunken spark of desire he wants so desperately to forget, has left him stiff and unnerved. With her near constant attention and what seems like her steadily growing proximity, it’s a volatile mix. 

Everything finally boils over one night. 

It’s later than usual. The sky has been dark for hours and, while Charon can still hear sounds of humanity, mostly drunken voices drifting over from the local bar, Eva is usually already asleep. For some reason, however she’s awake tonight, curled into the corner of the couch with a half-filled bag of sweets by her bare feet and a faded book forgotten in her lap. 

She’s wearing her sleeping clothes, one thread bare sleeve falling away to reveal a sunburned shoulder. Without the burn, she would be paler then the faded shirt she’s wearing. With her clear comfort in her environment, the image is oddly domestic and Charon wants no part of it. 

He’s still upset over that fleeting flicker of lust, though he knows rationally it had nothing to do with her. She wasn’t a specific subject, just another warm living thing to project a useless, primitive instinct onto. Still, he makes a wide berth around the couch when he walks towards the stairs. His foot is almost touching the first step when her sleep heavy voice stops him. 

“Charon? Can you come over here for a moment?” 

Eva is watching him from the couch, darkened bags under her eyes making her gaze more haunting then it should be. Her pale skin completes the image and Charon feels as if he’s walking towards a personified omen instead of the exhausted woman he knows she is. 

He stops by the back of the couch and grimaces when she pats the cushion beside her. She tucks her toes beneath his leg when he sits, tugging the corners of her lips into a weary smile. 

“I keep wanting to ask how your shoulder is even though I know it’s fine.” She’s so painfully honest sometimes, sharing her thoughts with him without a single aspect of them withheld.

“I know you’re not…” She stops and toys with a shorter lock of her hair, brushing the charred ends of it against her thumb. Eva was with Moira this morning and while she returned intact, several chunks of her hair had been burned away. Little flakes of black drift down onto her shirt. 

“I know you’re not exactly here voluntarily.” 

Charon sits up, turning his head towards her a little too fast to hide his surprise. Other than the first night after she bought his contract, Eva hasn’t addressed the actual reason behind his being with her. She tends to ignore it, asking his opinions as if he has any actual say in the matter. It annoys him to no end and occasionally he’ll respond with a canned line that sounds more suited coming from a trapped genie then a slave just to irk her. He’s unsettled by her sudden change in candor.  
Eva’s continuing, despite the unusually honest display of emotion on Charon’s face.

“And I know the situation I took you from wasn’t better but I…” Whatever Eva’s trying to tell him is clearly difficult, each word nearly pushed out of her. 

“I want you to know that I’m sorry. I don’t want you to ever be hurt because of me and I’m sorry.” The last words are spoken in a hurry and when they stop, silence fills the room. 

Charon doesn’t know what to say. Her earnestness makes his skin crawl. He’s never had an employer so oblivious to the real situation. She’s acting like they’re friends despite her immediate admittance to the contrary and he finds himself straightening to his full height when he turns to answer. 

“Your apology is unnecessary.” She starts to smile but he cuts her off. “You hold my contract and I am bound to protect you. You and I both know this. My safety comes second.” He doesn’t usually let himself think this way, his pride too strong to say the words aloud, but the rapidly blooming hurt on her face makes it easy. “We both know that's why you bought me.” 

Charon can still feel Eva’s cold toes tucked under his leg, the familiarity if the action now hanging as heavily as the silence between them. Slowly, she pulls them away. 

Eva opens her mouth, the red of her tongue standing out like blood, a fresh wound slashed across rapidly paling skin. He watches her struggle for words, watches her shadowed eyes tinge pink and grow wet and something churns unpleasantly inside him. 

Charon would not call himself petty but he enjoys revenge, enjoys taking what little power he can. Watching this exhausted woman, hair tangled and burnt and bare feet pink with cold, cry is not enjoyable. 

‘Watching Eva cry’ a tiny treacherous part of him whispers. 

One small tear rolls down her face and she brings her hand up to cover it, cupping her cheek as if she’s trying to hide the droplet instead of wipe it away. There’s a long swatch of red flared out across her hand and it’s clear it’s a burn. 

Charon hates that he noticed that detail, hates that he sees the tremble in her fingers and recognizes it. He’s seen that shaking behind a fallen billboard, hurriedly applying a stimpak to a fresh stab wound, seen it raking through a curled tight body tucked away between a dresser and an old rickety chair, seen it in her hands as she struggled with his shoulder strap on the second floor of a crumbling building. 

Charon hates it all. 

He stands to go and Eva doesn’t stop him. 

He hears the couch creak as he walks up the stairs but as to why, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t look back. 

Something is warring within him, an unpleasant mixture of frustration and disdain. She thinks she can just apologize and pretend, that he’ll join her in the lie. It’s revolting. It’s childish. 

Yet with all the anger directed at his employer, there is something else as well. As he crawls into his bed, pushing the blankets she’s provided to the floor, there is just a touch of guilt. It’s seeping into every other emotion, poisoning them until it feels like they have begun to turn inward, stabbing into his stomach lining like thorned vines. 

It’s never been difficult to hate whoever is holding his contract. They were always monsters, addicts, psychopaths, too fixated on how Charon could aid them in their goals to notice the danger of his ire. They were all too blind to his disdain to see the inevitable betrayal when his contract eventually changed hands. 

Eva may not be the first one to be fully aware of his anger but she is the first one to let it affect her. Yet somehow Eva is the first employer in a long while who has managed to ignite the deadened distaste inside him into fury.  
Charon rolls to his side, kicking his heavy boots to the floor. He has had his fair share of practice sleeping in unpleasant situations. Sleeping through psychological distress has always been one of them. 

He closes his eyes, pressing the rest of the world away, letting all his feelings, his fury and bitterness, his disgust, drain out of him. 

Sleep takes him just as he identifies one last emotion, the only one still weighing down his chest. 

Pity.  
………

Charon does not have dreams often but tonight he is plagued with them. They are messy, muddled things, flashing too quickly from one topic to another to leave more than a fading impression upon waking, burnt into his mind like blurry after-images on the back of his lids. 

He is in bed and it is soft, gloriously soft. He twists, rolls into a more comfortable position and inhales a swirl of burnt hair. The bed is made of the stuff and he is handcuffed, shackles descending into the silky strands. The scent is overwhelming, coating his throat like dust. 

Concrete dust. 

He is in the abandoned building, stretched out on the cement. Blood is seeping into the stone, staining it until it looks more like burned flesh then an office floor. 

He is inside the building and he is inside Eva, buried to the hilt and stroking skin softer then the hair he was drowning in. His ruined lips are against her neck and the heat of her hurts. Charon pulls away and she is nothing but paper, sparks burning through her, devouring her. 

He thinks she might be crying, he knows he can hear her laughing. 

Suddenly he is alone, pressed against the ancient wall and fumbling with a stimpak. The needle keeps slipping, piercing his fingers and immediately healing them over until everything feels like braille. The Mister Handy keeps buzzing around him, cleaning up endless debris as it crumbles down from a ruined ceiling. 

He is in the living room, eating snack cakes with Eva. She’s holding his contract, turning her head back and forth as if she’s reading the words that have long since faded. He wonders what it says. She catches his gaze and smiles at him, holding the paper up in front of her like a shield. 

He’s so angry. He tears the paper away, he wants to see her face but she’s gone. He’s alone on the couch though he still thinks he can feel her toes, cold through the fabric of his pants. The paper sparks up and burns away, old ink melting the contract into his skin. It runs down his wrists, drips to his thighs in damning words he can’t make out. 

The heat spreads down his legs and Eva is back, straddling him. She is what is scorching him. She leans in, kisses him gently right where his nose used to be. 

They are in his bed together now and he’s whispering into her ear, timing each word with an agonizingly slow thrust. Eva smiles up at him, blissful, and he hears what he’s been saying. 

His scratchy ruined throat, moaning over and over again, like they’re sweet nothings.

“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.” 

.......

He wakes with a sharp inhalation, too light to be a gasp but enough sudden air to leave him dizzy and the room spinning. It is still dark outside, though the town is quiet now, late into the night. 

Charon twists onto his side and lets the dream fade from his memory. When he finally returns to sleep, it is nothing but black, soothing emptiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I hope this wasn't too creepy! I want to show Charon's conflict with not hating his employer but I don't want it to seem like a "hate sex" situation. I'm posting this at about 4 a.m my time so hopefully this makes sense in the morning. 
> 
> Also thank you so much for all your sweet comments! I'm just so incredibly touched! <3 Thanks for sticking around and I really hope you enjoy this chapter too!


	8. Why Are You So Loyal?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva is helping Moira again.

Eva is clearly unsure of Charon after their fight. She doesn’t seem to know how to approach him, drifting closer as if he has a gravitational pull and then veering away like she’s been scorched. Whenever she approaches him, he catches her stopping herself, a hand hovering near his shoulder for just a moment, a shifted stance so her hip doesn’t risk the chance of grazing his. Her casual contact has always bothered him but the sudden change makes him itch. 

When she barely resists touching him he’s struck with the mad impulse to close the distance, initiate the contact first. He knows he doesn’t want it, doesn’t actually crave the physicality but it was her decision to touch him and now it is her decision to stop. Just once, he wants to decide. He feels the heat of an almost-touch and he wants to twist, grab the hand rapidly pulling away from him and… 

He doesn’t know what next. 

He feels like a leper. 

Eva has taken him along on another one of her quests for the insane woman next door. They’re crouched behind a twist in a sewer, searching for the large mushy eggs those abominations hatch from. Charon isn’t certain he’s ever done anything quite so stupid. 

She’s carefully put enough distance between them that they don’t risk touching as they ready for her attempt. He hates that he noticed, that it bothers him, but it does. 

The sewer is quiet, nothing but the eerie sound of dripping echoing across the water. He can hear faint ripples, a splash, but there’s no way of knowing where the noise came from or what created it. Eva is crouched beside him, holding a small mechanical object tight to her chest. Her gun is still in its holster, strapped to her back in a way that would make a sudden ambush deadly.

Charon wants to say something about it but there’s no telling what else would hear them. He can protect someone who’s reckless but he can’t protect suicidal. She must have some sense of self preservation, her presence is proof enough of that, but her continued association with Moira is making him doubt it. Eva glances over at him, gesturing for him to stay put and then putting one finger against her lips. She’s practically glowing in the dim light and he watches as she turns the corner and streaks towards her goal, a pale blur of light against mossy walls. 

She places the device nestled deep in the clutch of eggs and turns back towards him, giving him a thumps up and the first genuine smile she’s directed towards him since the fight.

She’s halfway across when a Mirelurk bursts up from the water and clamps one giant claw down on her right arm. 

The sewers explode with sound. The attack startled a shout out of her and her scream echoes, blurring together with the frantic splashing of calf deep water as Eva struggles and Charon sprints towards her. He can’t get a clear shot on the creature, a shotgun’s blast has too wide a radius to ensure he only hits his target and not the person he’s attempting to protect, so he twists his gun and slams the back of it against the giant crab’s face. 

The butt of the gun cracks against the softer shell, managing to break off one of its eagerly snapping mandibles. It doesn’t kill it but the damage is enough to draw the Mirelurk’s attention away from Eva. Its grip on her arm loosens as it turns towards its new target, lunging forward with its opposite claw a moment too late. She tugs her arm away but Charon can see it’s clearly broken, hanging limply at her side and bent at an unnatural angle. He’s twisting his gun back around, ready to watch this thing splatter across the sewer walls when Eva bolts past him, snatching up his hand using her still functional arm. Reluctantly he follows, though he can hear the Mirelurk making chase close behind. 

“We can’t kill them!” She’s shouting, any attempt at stealth abandoned. The echoes in the sewer have become near deafening and it’s a struggle to even make out her words. 

“Why the fuck not?” Eva has dropped his hand and is clutching her other arm tightly, obviously trying to minimalize the jostling as she runs. His employer is hurt and Charon is not in the mood for softening his words. They’re nearing the exit but he wants to turn and fight, blast these obnoxious oversized crustaceans into Mirelurk cakes. 

“It’ll mess up the study!” She’s still thinking of the woman who is clearly trying to kill her and her mad scientist investigations. Charon wants to scream. 

They reach the door and Charon yanks it open before Eva can attempt it. The pain and adrenaline can only get her so far and judging by the way her body has begun to shake, she’s nearing her limit. The claw has left several puncture wounds along the break line and he can see blood has begun to seep through her shirt. He slams the door shut once she’s through, relieved they chose to pick the lock instead of just kicking the door in. 

Eva looks dead on her feet but they manage to make it several blocks away before she needs to rest. Blood has saturated the cloth at this point, running down to her elbow and dripping a little too steadily on the ground. He’s pulling out a stimpak when she stops him. 

“Let’s wait until we get back to Megaton.” Her words are quiet and Charon shrugs them off, certain the shock is talking. Now that they’ve stopped he can see her arm more clearly and there’s no way she’d underestimate that severe of a break. The pain alone should make it obvious if the unsettling sight of an arm bent backwards isn’t enough. He’s ready to pop the bone back into place and inject her as quickly as possible but she steps away when he approaches. 

“Don’t touch me. I’m going to wait until we get back.” She rarely issues orders so directly and it’s enough to make him jolt, the contract forcing instant obedience. 

“What are you thinking? You’ll bleed out at this rate.” There’s the hint of a snarl in his words and he’s never been more frustrated with her then he is in this moment. “ Megaton’s not exactly a short stroll away.” 

Eva frowns at him. “Then I’ll wrap it up. People didn’t die instantly before stimpaks came around. I can make it there.”

Her voice is low but so much calmer than it should be. Charon’s hands are in fists and he would shake her if he could. What is she thinking? 

“Why?” He should be quieter out in the open but his blood is boiling. He stares her down as she shakily pulls a Med-x from his bag and, after a few tries, manages to press the needle into her skin. Her trembling fades once the painkiller starts to kick in. He could have helped her but her command makes even thinking of touching her difficult. 

He doesn’t particularly want to help her either. 

“Moira asked me to see her the next time I got really hurt.”

Eva is trying to maneuver her shirt off under her armor but she’s not left handed and she groans when the cloth slides off the wound, tacky with blood and clinging to her skin. She won’t look at him. 

Charon is seething. How can this one person be so infuriating? His pulse is still coming down from the fight and he knows it’s adding to his lack of control but he can’t hide the rage in his voice when he answers. 

“You’ll risk dying so you can be someone’s science project?” 

She has so much freedom, freewill. She has the option to say no yet she doesn’t take it. It isn’t fair. 

The urge to grab her arm and just fix her anyways is overwhelming but his contract is fighting him, making the impulse twist until it’s both compelling and repulsive. The idea of contact makes his skin crawl, his fingers burn and itch like he’s already being punished for it.

To think that he had the freedom to do this earlier, nearly even wanted to but now can’t. It’s almost funny. He didn’t even realize he could lose any more power over his own actions and yet here he is. Always, always under someone else’s control. 

“She’s trying to help people. She’s trying to do something good.” Eva has finally managed to pull off her shirt and is looping the rough fabric around her arm. The Med-X must be helping immensely because she barely flinches when the motion pushes the bone a little more into place.

“Besides, I like her. She’s sweet and weird and..” She sighs, half at herself and half at the knot she’s failing to tie. The fire has died out of her words and now she just sounds tired. Eventually she looks up at him, almost sheepish. 

“Can you help me?” She holds out the fabric meekly towards him. 

He crosses his arms, still angry. 

“I can’t. You ordered me not to touch you.” 

She looks frustrated but one corner of the shirt slips from her grasp. It’s clear she can’t do this alone. 

“Alright, you can touch me,” He steps forward quickly but she’s clearly aware of his intentions and finishes her order before he can ready the stimpak again. “but you can’t give me a stimpak until I finish talking with Moira.” Her brows are furrowed and if he’s ever felt more like a genie trying to twist someone’s wish around on them, he can’t remember. “You can only give me one beforehand if it seems like…” She bites her lip. “Um…if I am in…immediate danger of death.” 

He rolls his eyes at her but the stimpak goes back into his pack.  
…….

The trek back is long and irritating. Eva needs to stop often for rest and about half way there she takes another Med-X. Her pupils are pinpricks when she looks up at him, pain slowly draining from her face and something in him goes cold. He’s seen so many addicts with that symptom and finding the same unnerving stare on Eva’s face…he doesn’t like it. 

He follows after her, planning to hide the rest of the drug for at least a month. He’s not taking any chances, refuses to have another addict holding his contract. The image of Eva strung out and limp is unpleasant, his mind refuses to stop on it, skittering over the thought like a stone on water. 

She throws up half an hour later and the worry fades. 

When they finally reach Megaton, Eva's on her last leg. Her pale skin is shiny with sweat and her trembling has returned. The déjà vu as he helps her limp up the ramp to Moira’s home is unnerving. 

Moira is giddy when they arrive, chattering about all the data the observer unit has already sent back. She questions Eva on the mirelurks and her injuries, popping her arm back into place like it’s nothing. A bit of tension eases from Charon’s shoulders when he watches a stimpak needle break Eva’s skin and a little more when it’s immediately followed with a second. 

He’s leaning back against the wall next to Moira’s hired help, hoping he never finds himself here again. 

It’s at the end of the visit that Charon realizes why Eva is so loyal to this mad woman. Moira touches her.

It’s been happening the entire time, starting with a pat on Eva’s shoulder, squeezing her hand when she sets the bone. She rubs her arm sympathetically when she describes her pain, clasps their hands together in excitement when the observer sends another batch of info. Even when they’re not touching she stands close. The whole interaction ends with a sudden embrace and even Eva looks surprised. He almost looks away when she hugs back, the smile on her face so desperately happy it feels obscene. 

It’s sweet relief when they finally leave. He feels as if he hasn’t been able to breath for hours, the threat of danger looming close enough to pull the air from his lungs. Finally, his employer is safe and the buzzing nerves of his contract can fade.  
Eva, however, seems distracted. 

She’s clearly drained, the exhaustion and stress of the day still in her system even if the injury is now in the past. The stimpaks were fresh, homebrewed, and two of them were more than enough to knit the bone and tissue back together. Eva’s ruined shirt is still lying abandoned on Moira’s floor so Charon can easily see her new scars, shiny pink skin against ghostly white. They almost look more natural then her healthy skin. 

It feels like it’s been days since Charon stepped through the front door of their house. The agonizingly slow pace they had to take on their way back dragged the minutes into hours and he’s never felt such a strong desire to fall into his bed and rest but he can’t seem to do it. Eva is in the kitchen, fumbling with a can of pork n’ beans and something brings him over, some impulse he doesn’t want to look at too closely. The knife in her hand is wobbling and when she finally manages to pull the top open, she just puts her hands down onto the counter and sighs, leaning wearily over the surface. 

He puts his hand over hers. 

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t even look at her, though he saw her turn towards him in his peripheral vision. He just stands there, quietly, looking down at the sink like he’s unaware of her small hand, cold and horribly soft, under his. 

She doesn’t move and he gets the distinct feeling she’s afraid to. Whether it’s from uncertainty from his actions or worry that she might scare him away is impossible to say. 

His grip tightens, just slightly, and then he walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny bit of progress! Poor Eva's pretty touch starved since I doubt physical contact is pretty common in the Wasteland but *spoiler* that might change someday in the distant future. :p I hope you liked it and thanks again for all the encouragement! It makes it really fun to post more!


	9. The Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weather takes a turn for the worse.

‘It’s too windy for travel.’

That was the only thing Charon said to Eva when they stepped outside this morning. She’d responded by grabbing a hat and tugging her bandanna a little higher. 

Five hours out and now the wind is buffeting against their backs, whipping stinging sand against any skin they still have exposed. Visibility is low, the air so thick with dust it’s a struggle to see more than a yard in any direction. Finding their way home isn’t a concern, Eva’s pip-boy will keep them from wandering off track, but there’s no telling what else could be out here. Charon can’t even listen for any movement, no skittering across the dirt, no claws against stone. He tries anyway but there’s nothing but the endless howl of that damn wind. 

Two senses have been taken from him and it’s making him jumpy, anxious. His gun is readied, his finger a hairs breath from the trigger when Eva grabs him. He jolts, his repressed instinct to withdraw from her touch intensified by his jitters, and rips his arm from her grasp. 

Eva just blinks up at him, looking too miserable to be concerned at his response. 

“We should take cover until the weather passes.” Her face is mostly covered but what skin he can see has grown pink from the constant onslaught of debris. She blinks hard and rubs at her bloodshot eyes as she turns away, steering them in a sharp angle to the right. Charon follows suit. 

“I know there’s a series of caves around here.” She’s not even looking up as she walks, eyes glued to her wrist as she tries to make sense of the map. “They’re not too big but it’s better than being in the open.”

They stumble onward blindly for a long while before they find the cliff face. It’s a while longer still to find a cave big enough for the two of them to take shelter. The entrance is low down, descending slightly deeper into the earth but ending quickly enough that there’s no chance of hidden occupants. Eva climbs inside first, dropping her pack near the cave face and Charon follows, ducking in with a glance backwards as he goes. 

There are certain animals that like to stalk their prey before they attack. Something could have been tailing them for miles by this point. It would feel bolder by now, anxious for the kill. He just hopes that isn’t the case today. The two of them hadn’t exactly looked like an intimidating target, struggling feebly against the wind. 

He drops his pack by the entrance as well. It will aid in blocking out the wind but he’s hoping it might be just enough cover to send any mindless hunters on their way. 

When he turns, Eva is watching him. She’s sitting on one side of the cave, crossing her legs and propping herself up on her elbows. She looks like she’s settling down for a long wait. Charon sits across from her. The cave isn’t large by any means and there’s barely enough room for the two of them. Outside the wind is howling, cutting across the rock sharply. It makes the space they have seem even smaller. 

“What would you be doing today?” The ground beneath them is sandy and Eva is tracing swirling patterns with her finger. She’s decidedly not looking at him. 

“If you were alone.”

She still seems subdued. He can’t see her eyes, they’re hidden by dark lashes from her downward gaze, but he thinks they must still be red. They are clearly still watering, leaving faint tracks through the dust on her cheeks. 

Eva waits for his answer patiently, finger constantly moving as her design grows more elaborate. 

“I wouldn’t be in a cave.” 

She chuckles quietly at his answer, though he doesn’t hear much humor in it. 

“I already guessed that part.” One of her swirls collides with another and smudges the pattern. She presses her palm into the sand and smears it all away. 

“I know there’s a lot of things you wouldn’t be doing.” She glances his way, dark lashes making the pale white and crackly red unsettlingly bright. “What would you do?

“I…” Charon stops. What would he be doing? If he had no contract, no employer? He can’t remember a time when choice was even an option. He knows he must have had it once, knows logically that someone did this to him. At times, he can almost remember how. He can almost put a face to that first voice, telling him to stand, charged with that electric undercurrent of demand that he could never ignore again. 

Eva is watching him impassively now, her pinkened cheeks and bloodshot eyes an emotional contrast to the empty look on her face. He can only tell she’s anxious for his answer by the movement in her hand, still dragging her fingers nervously through the sand. 

Charon pushes his back into the cave wall, wishing there was more space between the two of them. 

“I don’t know what I would do. It isn’t an option.” He stares back, matching her gaze. “There’s no point in dwelling on impossibilities.”

A strong burst of wind picks up outside, howling so loudly it feels forceful, like something that’s pushing in against him, so solid he should be able to push back.

Eva’s fingers stop moving. 

“An impossibility?” Her voice is quiet.

Charon wants to be anywhere but here, somewhere with distance, anything to cut through the intensity of her stare. He settles with looking away, watching the bit of dirt swirl up and around their two packs by the entrance, pretending it’s something interesting. He can feel her eyes on him.

“You don’t think this will ever end? That it’ll never wear off?” She sounds curious but it’s the pity underneath it that irks him. 

“It’s not a fairy tale, Eva. It’s not a curse or a sickness. There’s not some magic cure.” He sneers his words, letting them drip with enough disdain to drown her in. 

She doesn’t seem to notice his tone, looking more fixated on the phrasing. It’s rare for him to use her name. She is his employer and any other title only comes into play during the most urgent of situations. Shouting a warning, calling for backup. He has learned to use it when necessary but it’s an uncommon occurrence. Judging by the look on her face, she’s aware of the rarity as well. For a moment, she it stunned by it, stock still, but then she is pushing herself quickly off the cave floor, leaning in so close he can feel the heat of her, smell the mix of sweat and dust on her skin. 

“You know that can’t be true. Everything wears off in the end.” She’s caught one of his hands up in hers, clutching it tightly in her sincerity. The wind screams outside, snarls. 

“If it’s an implant, it will break down. If it’s phycological, the muscle memory will fade. Everything goes away in the end. Nothing is forever.” 

Charon tugs his hand out of her grasp, irritated. 

“Why would you want my contract to end? You’d be out a good amount of caps with nothing to show for it.” Fighting his natural instincts, he leans closer, until they are so close he can feel her shallow breath warm against his scarred lips. He knows he is intimidating, hopes her sheltered life will make him more so. Hardened, cracking skin, sunken eyes, a hole where his nose should be. He looks every bit a monster and he’s very comfortable playing the part. 

“Ahzrukhal wasn’t pleased with the conclusion of our contract. What makes you think you’d fare any better?” 

His voice has dropped to a snarl, the words hissing between his teeth. Charon hates this topic more than any other, hates her more for her unique reason to broach it. Her damn bleeding heart has surfaced again, and he’s ready to smear the gore away to find what’s actually beneath it. 

Charon’s words have their intended effect. Eva recoils, pressing her fingers to her lips like the threat was her own instead of his, like she can take it back. Charon is not overly skilled with words, he is no diplomat, but he knows battle and he knows to follow when his enemy makes a sloppy retreat. He doesn’t let her keep the distance she has made between them, pressing so closely he has to shift onto his knee, lean into his hand. 

“You didn’t buy me to break my curse. You won’t kiss me and find a prince. You bought me because you wanted this, wanted the contract to hold.” The world is tearing it’s self apart outside, the howling morphing into moans, growls, stretches out into one long sickening roar. Inside everything is muted, his words the only true sound, hanging heavy as the storm around them. 

“The question isn’t what would I do without my contract. The real question is what would you?” He stays close just long enough to stare her down, fill her vision completely, then pulls away and waits. 

Why can she ignite so much fury in him, so much passion? He is waiting eagerly for her response, ready for her anger or her tears. What he doesn’t expect is the heart heavy sigh he gets instead. 

When Eva looks at him, there are no new tear tracks down her cheeks, her eyes are only red from the wind. She reaches one hand out towards him again, wavers, drops it. She doesn’t look angry or hurt, just weary. 

“Charon, you’re right. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what to do, if there’s even anything I can do.” She shakes her head, more at herself then at him. “All I know is that I did choose this but I do know it’s wrong. I know it hurts you.” Her voice is soft but the wind is monstrous, screaming outside like it’s alive. “I know I don’t want to have to be alone again.” 

The air is saturated with that last whispered phrase and Charon feels…something. An impulse for action but of what kind, he isn’t sure. They both seem to waver, angry and hurt, emotions rubbed raw by the constant din outside on obvious display. Just as the energy around them begins to condense, transition into something else, the wind’s furious howls give way to a scream that is far more alive. 

Charon has his gun readied first, more than a lifetime’s practice has him pulling it into position as easily as drawing a breath. He watches and waits as three enormous claws slide almost silently past the two packs propped in front of the cave entrance and pause, just long enough for the terror they inspire to sink in. Charon recognizes them, knows the creature attached is intelligent enough to know how it’s toying with them but somehow, he is still shocked when the claws rip the bags away and are replaced by the snarling head of a deathclaw. 

The beast roars, saliva splattering the sand as its forked tongue curls outwards, scenting the air. One of its horns is broken off at the tip and its far too humanoid face is covered in old scars. The sound of its back claws scraping at stone fills the cave. 

Charon levels his gun, trying to brace himself in the small space. The creature is too large to reach them through such a small entrance but he knows it will make short work of the dirt and stone in its way. It gurgles as it struggles, the deathclaws’ hunting call distorting with its frantic hunger. There’s no doubt this thing was tracking them, only thrown off by the storm distorting its sense of smell. Now the beast has found them and it is eager for its meal. 

He fires two blasts directly into the Deathclaw’s face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eva scream, clutching at her head as the sound of the gun reverberates throughout the small cave. Charon himself can hear nothing but ringing. He sees the creature opens his mouth but cannot tell if it makes a sound. Blood splatters across the ground but it’s not nearly enough. Despite the injury, it is still struggling to reach its prey. 

Charon is steadying himself for another shot, still off balance on the uneven floor of the cave, when Eva pushes him aside and darts forward, plunging a knife into the exposed fleshy part of her target’s neck that has managed to work its way inside the cave. The skin dents before it gives way and he can see her muscles strain to push past the deathclaw’s leathery hide. 

It breaks through just as the cave entrance begins to crumble. Blood so thick it’s nearly black pours from the wound, drenching her hand until she loses her grip. Eva slips forward, dangerously within the monster’s reach. Enough stone has been torn away from the entrance that it can now thrust an arm inside, retractable claws extending as it goes for the kill, but Charon slams the butt of the gun against its wrist before it can reach its target. 

Another gunshot erases any hearing that might have been returning, but it’s enough. The deathclaw collapses. 

Still, though it is too injured to fight, the beast takes several minutes to die, intelligent eyes first darting around in panic and then slowly glazing over as the last shreds of its energy fade away. 

They wait. 

Slowly, the ringing in Charon’s ears fades away and he can make out faint sounds. He can hear Eva’s breathing slow as the minutes stretch by. 

He can hear the wind. 

…..

The storm dissipates an hour later, just as they finish skinning the hulking corpse blocking their way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long! I hope it was worth the wait, it's definitely not one of the sweeter chapters. :p
> 
> Again, thank you all so so much for the encouragement! I'm overwhelmed and incredibly touched. :)


	10. Passing Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon and Eva are waiting out a storm.

The wind blew in two days of perfect weather, just long enough to make the following storm a surprise. Icy rain cut through the residual heat, forcing any travelers to either stay indoors or risk the chance of being trapped outside when the rain went from just chilling to acidic. Eva is not handling it well. 

Charon’s thinly veiled threat still hangs between them and the first day of forced isolation is spent with her carefully trying to avoid him. She nearly flees the room each time he enters, either citing some hurriedly constructed excuse or just dashing away without a word. It makes the energy in the house incredibly tense and by day two, Charon is as eager for the storm to end as she is. 

Day three seems to bring some sort of calm with it, a bit of peace within the house if not outside it. It’s the first time Charon enters a room without Eva exiting it just as quickly. The rain is coming down just as heavily as yesterday, pounding against the metal roof and filling the space with a muffled sense of enclosure. With travel near impossible and every sound but the rain cut away, it feels as if they are the only two left in the world. 

She gives him a weary stare as he enters but does nothing else, returning her gaze to the deck of cards in her hands. The circles under her eyes are as dark as bruises and a flicker of guilt sparks up before Charon has the chance to stop it. He looks away and heads towards the kitchen, pulling a cupboard open with a little more force then necessary. 

She’s the one who keeps making things too personal. If she doesn’t like his answers, it’s her own damn fault for asking. 

Still, something stops him from leaving with his meal and he finds himself sitting across from her, feet propped up on the table and head definitively turned in any direction but hers. 

Charon supposes he feels a little guilty, though he hates to admit it. As vile as all his employers are, she’s still a relatively young one, clearly unhinged and obviously desperate for affection. He remembers touching her hand, the one time he was the one to initiate contact, and feels a little sick. Being consistently distant is one thing, letting his disdain for her be his only obvious opinion, but that was one action that contradicted itself. She’s so needy, any hint at companionship, even just the suggestion of a possible friendship, must send her reeling. 

He sneaks a peek at her, watching her shuffle her cards absentmindedly out of the corner of his eye. He might still hate her but playing with her feelings isn’t something he’s interested in doing. It’s still too intimate and in this steadily more personal relationship, intimate is exactly what he’s trying to avoid. 

She bites her lip when several cards slip from her grasp and despite everything, he finds himself following the motion. Suddenly he’s not hungry any more. The unbidden memory of that slip in his reasoning (His sanity, he tells himself) comes crashing back.  
Charon pushes the images away with a sigh, dropping his still filled plate of pork n’ beans onto the table. He’s going stir crazy, that’s all. Three days with nothing to do but wait can make anything seem interesting, anything to break the monotony. 

That one particular dream, the one that took place almost exactly where he is seated now, wavers on the edge of his mind. He pushes it away. A angry lustful encounter is definitely not one of the options to pass the time. 

The sharp sputtering of cards on wood pulls him from his train of thought. Eva has placed the cards on the table, sorting out four piles, two of which she pushes down the table towards him. 

“Do you want to play?” 

She’s watching him cautiously, like she’s holding out a hand towards a wild animal, hopeful but nervous. 

Charon reaches for his cards with a grunt, as non-committal as he can get, but she grabs his wrist before he can scoop up the larger of the piles. 

“Wait! You’re not allowed to look at those.” She gestures towards the smaller pile and picks up her own set, smiling awkwardly over the cards. 

“These are the cards you’re allowed to see.” She flips the top card on his larger pile face up, exposing a slightly battered jack of spades. The cards are in surprisingly good condition, faded and bent in places but still whole. 

Eva looks excited now and it strikes him that she probably hasn’t had the chance to use these cards yet. As far as he knows, he’s the first company she’s had in the wastes other than Moira but he can’t imagine that woman settling down for a game of cards. Not unless the cards were laced with some experimental poison of hers… or maybe were just rigged to explode. 

Eva flips the first card on her front deck, a slightly scorched three of hearts, and grins. She plops down a red ace and a black two from her hand, then pulls the three of hearts off her first pile and adds it to the two other cards. She flips another card and snorts at the queen of diamonds she finds, the sort of displeased sound that clearly doesn’t really matter. She turns to him. 

“You’re trying to get rid of your stack of cards. An ace starts the pile and a queen ends it. Kings and jokers are wild cards.” Whatever tension she still felt between the two of them has faded, being replaced by the giddy excitement of a person who has had nothing to do for too long. Clearly, she’s been as bored as he has and, as Charon shuffles through his hand, a part of him regrets not having noticed that sooner. She may unnerve him at the best of times, infuriate him at the worst, but the near constant activity he’s grown used to these past months has spoiled his ability to wait. Her company might not be ideal but it’s better than nothing but the constant drone of rain sleeting down above his head. 

He plays his hand and watches her. Eva perplexes him and his confusion has bled into every aspect of her. She is a mystery but more and more, his opinions of her are a mystery. She slaps down four cards and grins, working through three cards in her larger pile. Charon looks down at his hand. 

She might confuse him but this game seems simple enough. For now, he will just focus on the cards. They are so much easier to understand. 

……..

It’s dark by the time Eva packs the cards away. The rain is still going strong and the wind has joined it, howling almost as ominously as it had that day in the cave. Eva has worked her way into the corner of the couch, her corner, Charon thinks. He rarely sits there, favoring the other side for himself, and the thought that they’ve developed correlating habits makes him a bit queasy. 

“Hey, are you hungry?” She’s curled the way she usually is but he notices her toes aren’t tucked away under his leg. She stopped that particular habit the night he first openly revealed his resentment towards her and he’s glad of it. It was the sort of action that made him wonder at her level of infatuation, something that felt more like an action between an established couple then something between friends. 

Her toes look very pink. 

They look cold. 

Charon’s lunch still sits on the table, the cold sauce coagulating into something entirely unappetizing. He shrugs. He could eat but he doesn’t want to eat that. It’s wasteful, even picky, and under Ahzrukhal he wouldn’t have considered it. The clause against violence in Charon’s contract grated at the old ghoul and he had taken every chance he got to work his way around it. 

Withholding food was an easy one. 

“I bought some mirelurk meat before the storm hit and it’s bound to go bad soon. You want to try making mirelurk cakes?” Eva looks so hopeful. He doesn’t know if it’s making him more or less inclined to agree. After a moment, he shrugs. What else does he have to do? 

“Fine.” 

Eva grins and walks towards the kitchen, gathering up several items and dropping them down on the counter. Vegetable oil, mirelurk meat, and several jars of spices come out first. A carton of deviled eggs follow along with a crumbled bag of potato crisps. Charon cringes. Maybe she’s more unhinged then he thought. 

The mirelurk meat has already been cooked and she goes about shredding the thick chunks of flesh into stringy piles. 

“Can you crush the potato crisps?” She gestures towards the bag and a bowl she’s set out beside it. Charon does so, though hesitantly. 

“Why am I doing this?” He’s pressing the heel of his hand into the bag, feeling its contents crumble beneath the pressure. He’s never done something so absurd. 

“Well we don’t have breadcrumbs so I figured that’s our best bet.” 

Eva transfers the meat to another bowl and starts to season it, sprinkling herbs he doesn’t recognize generously over the surface. It looks appetizing. The meat is cooked and even seasoned, something he’s only seen the wealthier wastelanders appreciate, he doesn’t know why they should put any more effort into this meal. Usually this level of Eva’s unnecessary eccentricity would bother him but rain is beating against the walls outside and the wind is nearly screaming. He’s in no hurry to end this distraction.

“We made something sort of like this in the vault. It called for imitation crab.” She chuckles, sloshing a splash of oil into the bowl. “It’s funny thinking I was eating an artificial monster all those years.” She steps close to him, leaning into his space but before he thinks to recoil, she’s snatched up the box of deviled eggs and returned to her bowl. 

She continues like she didn’t notice his (lack of) response. 

“We had something called egg substitute. It was this gross, off colored powder but if you added water you could make almost anything with it.” She pops open the box and pulls out the tray of eggs, shrink wrapped so tightly they look fresh from the factory. It’s irritating that he’s jealous of some overly processed food. It looks untouched by radiation and time, uniform sunshine yellow swirls cupped by creamy white flesh. It’s perfectly preserved. Sometimes he wishes he could boast the same. 

“I don’t know if these are really eggs but I bet if we mush them into the meat, it’ll work the same.” Her smile is cheeky when she turns to him. 

“Either that or we’re going hungry tonight.” 

He snorts despite himself. Charon’s never seen a house more stock full of supplies. They could be trapped inside for a month and he doubts they’d run out of food. With this level of excess, her home would be a treasure trove for looters. She’s lucky this house has its own built in security system. As if on cue, the Mr. Handy whirs past them, dusting spotless furniture and muttering under its breath about water damage. 

Charon supposes she would have been luckier if her security system wasn’t so obnoxious. 

Eva’s mashed the deviled eggs into the meat mixture and is now forming it into fat patties. Charon empties the potato crisps into his bowl, having long since crushed them into crumbs, and hands it over. He’s getting hungry now and despite Eva’s mad scientist approach, the food sounds as if it’ll actually be enjoyable. 

She dredges the patties in the crumbs, carefully coating every inch, and fries them. The oil is popping in the pan and the house is filled with an aroma that makes Charon’s stomach tie itself into knots. 

The first batch is lumpy and malformed, cold on the inside but still somehow burned to a crisp.

The second batch fairs almost the same fate but the third batch makes it out alive.

They eat standing in the kitchen as the storm rages outside and for a moment, Charon almost feels content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really uncertain about this chapter. I wanted to showcase some of the lighter moments and how confusing they are to Charon, just sort of whip lashing his emotions around, but I think it might of gotten too comfortable too quickly? I hope it's not a disappointment. Everyone has been saying the sweetest things about this story and I don't want to let you down. Thank you so much for the comments and kudos, they mean the world to me. :)


	11. Feeling Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva is pacing and Charon can't sleep.

It’s two in the morning, the rain is still pouring outside, and Eva won’t stop pacing. Charon is lying on his bed, trying to ignore her. Thankfully, he can’t hear her footsteps but she has taken up the habit of tapping her nails against any metallic surface she passes by. Judging by the number of erratic ‘tings!’, she’s found at least seven distinct sounds to make as she circles the living room. If Charon had good luck the rain would drown out Eva’s odd percussions but he doesn’t and the noises manage to make their way through. He rolls to his side and groans. It’s becoming more and more obvious that he doesn’t have any luck at all.

The storm has still not let up and the rain has gone from benign to mildly acidic, not enough to cause permanent damage but enough to keep everyone indoors. It is clearly driving Eva insane. Charon doesn’t like it either but if anything is going to get to him, it’s going to be her. The single taps have changed to drumming, hard and fast and he can’t take this anymore. 

Charon is out the door before he can rethink it. He finds Eva in her night clothes, dull nails scratching against the rough fabric of the couch, making her way back towards the stairs. She looks up at him and he wonders how many times he has to see her bloodshot eyes before they stop looking so ghoulish. 

“It’s two in the morning.” Charon’s voice is empty of emotion, carefully so. He wants to continue with a ‘why the fuck are you still awake?’ but he bites it back. Those eyes don’t hint at an emotionally stable employer. 

Eva nods, solemn as a grave, and starts to pace again. He nearly sighs. This is going to be a long night. 

Eva continues to make her way around the room. While she looks exhausted, she seems to be filled with manic energy. Her hands tremble across the discolored metal sheeting patching up the door and he can’t tell if she’s drumming her fingers against it or just shaking too hard for a single tap. She doesn’t look his way until she hears the hard thump of the vodka bottle on the counter. 

“What are you doing?” Her dark hair is tangled, pushed up on one side like she’s been clutching at it. The bags under her eyes look like bruises. 

“I’m getting you to calm the fuck down.” He drops two mismatched cups beside the bottle and watches her, waiting. He can see her debating, her fingers dancing up her arm and then down again for her to twist her hands anxiously. He’s honestly never seen her this worked up and he hates to admit it but it’s starting to worry him. When she finally comes to some sort of conclusion through the exhausted fog she’s clearly in, her whole body seems to tense and then release. She approaches him cautiously, eyeing first him and then the bottle. 

“Are we drinking?” The level of confusion in her tone is almost amusing but Charon just nods and pours a finger into each glass. Silently, he hands one to her and knocks back his own. The vodka is terrible but it’s the only liquor in the house and judging by the way she’s eyeing her own glass like it’s a beast poised to bite, she won’t know the difference. 

Eva’s nose wrinkles as she brings the drink closer to her face and it would almost be endearing if she hadn’t just been driving him up a wall for the last three hours. She bites her lip, sucks in a deep breath and, for some reason, squeezes her eyes shut as she quickly tips the liquid into her mouth and swallows. A full body shudder follows and Charon can’t help but snort. 

“Not much of a drinker?” He deadpans, like it’s not incredibly obvious from her reaction. 

He’s rewarded with a glare and another smaller shiver. 

“No.” Eva stares down into her empty glass and grimaces. “Dad was a doctor. He always said it’s wasn’t good for you.” 

Charon doesn’t answer, just splashes a little more vodka into both of their glasses. She eyes him nervously, too intrigued to turn down an interaction Charon has instigated but clearly uninterested in a repeat performance. 

“This whole world isn’t good for you.” Her eyes flicker down towards his hands, his ruined rotted skin and oh, that burns more than any bad booze ever could. He puts the drink to his lips and she follows the motion. Charon is living proof of this noxious wasteland, all the evidence she could ever need on constant display. He swallows and the drink tastes bitter. 

Eva’s glass is empty when he looks again, her lips twisted into a grimace. She pulls in a breath through her nose and exhales slowly, clearly trying to avoid shuddering again. Her expression is sad.

“How long until I feel better?” She traces one pale finger along the rim of her glass. 

Charon shrugs. “It depends.” 

She pours herself a glass this time, tipping in a small amount, hesitating, then adding a splash more. 

“On what?” He can feel her eyes on him, burning like the liquor. 

“On how well you handle your booze.” He glares before she can start any follow up questions. Eva looks away, almost hurt even though by now he’d think she’d be used to it. Inwardly, he groans at himself. How soft is he getting? 

“Or on what’s making you feel worse.” She smiles at that, a crooked dead little thing that almost looks sadder then her frown. Not worth the effort.

A stretch of time passes where they just drink, standing in her kitchen as the world drowns outside. 

“I don’t like heavy rain.” Her voice is soft. She swirls the liquid in her glass, thoughtful. Charon has propped himself back against the wall, the familiar position and smell of alcohol bringing back some unpleasant memories. Sad drunks were Ahzrukhal’s bread and butter and it won’t be the first time Charon’s listened to a sob story spoken into a half empty glass. 

“It was raining my first day in Megaton and it was raining the first time I killed someone.” She half chuckles, tipping her glass back and forth slowly. “It was the same day actually.” 

She looks up at Charon, all the sincerity in the world plain on her face. She’s had enough by now that her cheeks are a little flushed but her eyes are still clear, still focused. “I mean, I shot people when I had to leave the vault. I had to but it didn’t feel real. I just pulled a trigger and then they were bleeding. I didn’t even feel the recoil, I was so scared.” She tips a little when she turns towards him and he steadies her without thinking. “There was this man in the bar, practically one of the first conversations I had out here and he wanted me to kill everyone here.” 

Charon quirks an eyebrow at her, though it’s more reliant on his facial muscles then any long missing facial hair. 

“High expectations.” 

She frowns slightly, her brows knitting together in frustration. “He wanted me to set off the nuke.” 

Charon blinks, waits for her to continue. Was this his house? The man she killed? 

“I told him I would. I barely even knew how to talk to a stranger yet and there I was making promises.” She looks angry, “I think I was just too scared to say no.”

Eva leans against the counter as well, sliding down until she’s sitting on the floor, empty glass cradled in her lap. 

After a moment, Charon gives in. He’s been curious about her levels of success, her mysterious luxuries almost as long as he’s known her but Eva looks lost in thought, too distressed with ugly memories to notice she still has his attention. 

Charon clears his throat. Then, when she doesn’t react, he joins her on the floor, stretching his legs out until they are side by side with hers. The comparison is nearly jarring, she looks so small next to him. It’s almost hard to believe that this person, this maddening woman that owns him and occupies so much of his thoughts, pushes into his dreams until her presence is nearly larger than life just from her significance in his, all of that can fit in such a tiny package. 

“I’m guessing you didn’t follow through.” The almost joke falls flat and he stares forward, waiting for her response. He nearly jumps when she responds by dropping her head to the side with a thump, resting heavily on his shoulder. She sighs and he can smell the vodka on her breath. 

“I followed him out of town. It was raining so hard he didn’t notice me until I was almost on him.” Eva drops her glass on the floor, watching it rumble around on the wood until it stands flat. 

“My gun was pretty much worthless and I’d shot it at a person what, maybe five times?” She laughs, soft and humorless. 

“I ended up jumping on his back like I was a kid and it was a game but I had a knife and it wasn’t. It’s still the most brutal thing I’ve ever done.”

She pulls away, drops her head into her hands. Her eyes are wide open and he can see they’ve gone watery though she doesn’t seem to notice. Her face is blank, staring at something he can’t see. 

“He was screaming and I was screaming and I don’t know how many times I stabbed him, just that by the end I didn’t even feel that tightness before the skin gives. It just sank it.” Eva grimaces. “Like meat.” 

Charon waits for more but Eva says nothing, just reaches up for the vodka and takes a swig, straight from the bottle. She shivers and he can feel it, shuddering all down his side like it’s his own. 

“So, that’s my monologue.” Eva smirks and it’s so full of self-hatred that it almost hurts to look at. She tips the glass over and pushes. Together they watch it slowly roll across the floor, veering slightly to the right and hitting the stairs with a faint ‘thunk’.  
The rain pours outside but the rest is quiet. 

“So, Charon?” Eva is thoughtfully turning the bottle around in her hands. 

“When do I start feeling better?” 

Charon doesn’t know what to say. The bomb is disabled, everyone in the town knows this except for the raving man who worships it. He looks around the house, at the high-end laser rifle by the door and the deactivated Mr. Handy in the corner, waiting for the morning to come. Of all the explanations he tried to find for her wealth, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t just some terrified vault dweller desperately killing a man in the rain. 

Carefully, almost gently, he reaches out for the bottle and pulls it from Eva’s grasp. He doesn’t bother pushing her away when she moves closer to him, again dropping her head back to his shoulder. She huddles near him like he’s safety, a shelter in the storm, pressing with that almost dead weight in a way only the dying or the drunk can do. He can hear her breathing slow into a steady rhythm and he can’t tell if she’s passed out or just finally fallen asleep. 

When will she start to feel better? When will he? When will all of this?

Charon doesn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's Eva's big reveal! Sort of anti-climactic compared to Charon's expectations. I hope all the weather chapters aren't getting annoying.  
> Again,I can't even believe all the sweet comments. They always brighten my day so much. Thank you all so so much. <3


	12. I Don't Want To.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm has ended and Charon and Eva stretch their legs. 
> 
> I think I should maybe put a warning here? There's some graphic violence in this chapter and, while it isn't sexual, there is some nudity.

The rain has stopped and for a while Eva is so happy. She’s spinning, blissful. They are traveling light for once and she is light on her feet, almost floating across the wasteland. Her excitement is nearly infectious and mixed with the sunlight and a flood of endorphins from the renewed exercise, Charon is open to being infected. Their trajectory seems to be mindless, focused more on wandering and escaping the indoors then an actual destination. It’s hard to admit it but it’s nice. 

This is nice. 

Eva is laughing when they stumble across the slavers. 

It’s a small group, just three guards escorting four prisoners, two men and two women. Three of them seem to be adults but one is too small, thin and gangly, not grown into his body yet. He stumbles along and to Charon he looks like a starving pup, a creature that should be brimming with energy, with youth but has already been beaten down by the world, weak and empty inside. It’s difficult to look at and judging by Eva’s drawn expression, she is struggling with it as well. 

The slavers are heading away from them, at first hidden by a low hill. Eva and Charon drop back, crouching behind a large rock as the group passes by. They are pressed close and he can feel the tense energy in Eva’s limps, muscles tight in the arm against his. She glances his way. Her expression has gone cold. 

“I want to kill them.” Her voice is low but he can hear the anger in her words. “There’s only three, it shouldn’t be hard.” 

She’s readying her gun, one of her lighter weapons and, he knows, not her favorite in a fight. They hadn’t expected much confrontation on this trip as they had little plans for scavenging so Eva has nothing but her gun and the serrated knife she keeps strapped to her hip for quieter outings. Charon has his shotgun and a few grenades, useless additions to their arsenal for now. Unless they manage to pull the slavers incredibly far away from their prisoners, the explosions would guarantee casualties. He feels ill prepared but he has won fights with less. 

He nods at Eva but she has already turned away, lining up the only surprise shot they’ll be able to get in before the standoff. It hits the second slaver, a thick towering man missing a large chunk of his jaw, in the chest. He staggers, clutching the wound, but doesn’t fall. Her shot has hit just low enough that while he’ll most likely bleed out before the fight is over, it’s not enough to drop him immediately. He hears Eva curse furiously under her breath. 

The slavers are thrown off by the sudden attack, for a moment startled into chaos and it gives Eva another chance. This time she hits her mark, nearly exploding the large man’s head as the bullet collides with the left side of his skull. It’s almost perfect but she had to move up to aim and as their partner’s body crumbles to the ground, the other slavers spot her and begin to rush towards them. 

A shotgun is nearly useless for long distance attacks so Charon ducks out behind the rock and sprints forward, targeting the closer of the two slavers. While he hits his target, she’s the most armored of the group and she’s on him before he can fire again, slamming her elbow into his gut. Charon staggers but manages to stay standing. Before she can withdraw he grabs her still extended arm and pulls, twisting to throw her to the ground with her own momentum. The slaver shouts and he hears the familiar crunch of snapping bone when she lands. He can see her fumbling for the stimpaks strapped to her belt but her good hand is missing several fingers and it’s slowing the action. One good shot could erase all the damage he’s done so Charon doesn’t bother to aim his gun, just twists it and slams the butt into her throat. 

What should have been a scream gurgles out of her throat, wet and broken. It’s clear he’s crushed something. He doesn’t know where Eva is and the contract’s fear for her is making him manic, rushed. He slams the gun against the slaver again, battering until the sounds turn from human to wounded animal. It’s pain, primal fear, something later he will wish he didn’t recognize but for now it’s what he wants. The need to go find his employer, protect, protect, protect, leaves him seeing nothing but red. He only knows to stop when the noises fade into nothing but the wet squelching of battered meat under his gun. 

Charon doesn’t bother surveying the damage, it’s clear the slaver is dead from a glance. It’s more important that he finds Eva. The sound of gunshots turns him north and he sees her, crouched behind another slab of rock, too small for decent protection, darting out to fire off a shot as the last raider runs towards her hiding place. The bullet misses be a wide margin and it’s only then that he notices she’s bleeding from a long gash along her upper arm. It’s only a skid mark but it’s enough to make her aim weaker. 

The sight of her blood pushes needles into his nerves, makes his head throb and he’s racing towards her with less caution then he knows he should use, too desperate to obey. It’s an instinct he hates but something he can never deny at the time, only later will it claw at him, bitter and humiliating. He is a good fighter but any physical damage to his employer takes tactical thinking and pushes it from his mind, replaces it with nothing but an instinctive drive to defend. 

He’s halfway to the slaver when the man needs to reload and Eva takes her chance. She bolts from behind her rock, firing three shots into his chest as she runs. He crumbles under the attack, two of her bullets have made it past his armor and by the look on his face, it’s clear he’s realized he’s going to die. 

Charon is close enough to hear the air wheezing from his throat, see the sheen of sweat on the man’s brow, smell his life’s blood staining the ground. He’s close enough to see him reach down, tug a small device from his coat pocket and activate it. He hears three short beeps, all in the same succession but distorted, echoing from four separate locations. 

He’s close enough to see Eva’s face when the slave collars detonate. 

She screams and he’s never heard that sound from her before, the rage ripping her voice into the ribbons, cracking apart before the shout even ends. Her gun forgotten, she leaps, knocking the man from his knees to his back. She tears her knife from her belt and rips it across the man’s throat, serrated edge catching enough of his flesh that her arm is straining to pull it all the way across. 

Charon reaches her just as the man’s last bubbling gasp fades away. 

Still straddling the slavers chest, Eva is slumped over, nearly limp. Her hair hides her face but he can see she’s panting, see her shoulders rise and fall from the effort. 

After the fight, the world feels unnervingly quiet, nothing but a faint breeze rattling through dead grass and Eva’s shuddering breath. 

A moment passes and Charon starts to approach her, careful, uncertain. He can see her tense but just as he reaches out for her, she screams, rears back and slams her knife into the man’s chest. He can hear the bone crack, the slosh of blood and meat losing structural integrity as her knife penetrates the flesh again and again. Finally, after far too long Eva tugs the knife upwards, filling the air with the sharp pop of his ribcage snapping and falls still. 

“Damn it.” Her voice is raw and quiet as she curls over the dead man beneath her. Charon takes one more cautious step towards her and she turns when she hears him, staring up at him with blood shot eyes. The way she looks at him, the guilt, it feels like she’s not seeing him and he doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know what else she thinks she’s looking at. 

“Eva…” his voice trails off, uncertain. 

She shakes her head and a thick strand of her hair clings to her neck, sticky with blood. 

“Let’s go home.” She staggers to her feet and turns away, picking up her gun like it’s an afterthought, knife still clenched tight in her other hand. 

Neither of them turn to look at the mess behind them but they both know what they’ll see. Four broken bodies, necks just bloodied stumps, one corpse horribly smaller than the others. 

They walk home silently. Halfway back Eva’s knife slips from her hand and it hits the ground with a quiet thump. Charon says nothing and they leave it there, steel stained red, forgotten in the dirt. 

……

Eva fumbles her way into the house and makes a beeline for the wash room. Charon almost continues to follow her, mind elsewhere. He only stops when the door clicks shut, pushing him back into reality. 

The walk gave him time to think but he still hasn’t placed Eva’s expression. They have failed, that much is obvious. The proof of it is most likely still bleeding out into the dusty ground behind them. Yet she didn’t look angry with him, it wasn’t the expression of withheld violence or fury. If anything, she watched him like she’d already hurt him, not weary of retaliation but remorseful. He’s not certain he’s ever seen that particular emotion directed his way before.

Charon turns away, dropping his pack next to Eva’s, abandoned by the door. Behind him, he hears the water start, hears it muffle as the steam moves from porcelain to skin. He can almost see the water pouring from her pale fingertips, staining rust red as it goes. 

He’s only just begun kicking off his boots when the water stops. 

“Charon?” The door has been pushed open and there is Eva, hair wet and skin pink from the shower, wearing nothing but a dingy white towel, little swirls of steam coiling out the doorway behind her. Even with the extra color from the water, she looks sick, her face drawn. 

Charon recoils, one shoe still on, the other forgotten on the floor beside him. He’s never seen this much of her but it doesn’t feel like a seduction. He’s long abandoned the idea that her intentions with him were ever sexual and, with the look on her face more one of nausea then arousal, it still feels unlikely. If anything, she looks…unhinged, though her eyes are far from glassy. In fact, it feels like she’s never looked at him so undividedly and he has the urge to flinch away from her gaze. She takes one step towards him, water pooling at her feet. 

“I can ask you to do anything, can’t I?” There’s loathing in her voice, though it isn’t clear who it’s for, 

“You can’t stop me and you can’t hurt me.” 

Her fist is clenched around her towel, knotted tight in the middle of her chest. She takes another step towards him. Charon feels inescapably trapped. 

“I could make you kill anyone, even someone you loved, couldn’t I?” Her face starts to crumble, lips twisting and nose going pink. 

“I could make you go to my room and fuck me, right now. I…” her semi-dead voice cracks and she balls her other fist in her hair, tugging viciously, one dry sob shaking her shoulders. 

“I don’t want to own you anymore.” 

Charon hits the wall before he even realizes he’s backed away. Her words are threatening yet delivered without any actual force. He wants to feel anger at them but they don’t seem like a prediction, only a miserable acknowledgment of the facts. He’s so confused. 

Eva’s stare drags off him, like it hurts to look away and then she makes a sharp turn towards the kitchen, snatching up a knife resting on the counter. When she looks back to him, her brows are knotted, creased in determination. 

“Cut me.” She holds out the knife, handle first. She doesn’t look away. 

Charon blinks in surprise. “What?” Is this some self-flagellation for controlling him, owning him? Already the order is pushing, twisting in his gut with the contradiction. He thinks he may be sick. He stumbles forward. 

“Is this your idea of repenting?” He spits his words at her even as he continues forward. Eva bites her lip but stands her ground, shaking her head at his accusation.

“No, but you can’t hurt me, shouldn’t be able to but if I ask you…maybe…” She trails off and Charon would scoff if his head wasn’t splitting. 

“What? It’ll break the spell? Don’t be an idiot.” His words are slurred, a struggle to form. He’s almost right by her, each step both relieving and painful. 

Eva stands a little taller, holding out the knife a little further. He can practically smell her fear. 

“Charon, I order you to cut me with this knife.” She swallows and her hand wobbles, just for a moment. “Deep.” 

His mouth is suddenly so dry, head throbbing, skin on fire. His ears are ringing but it sounds like her voice, repeating the order over and over again. Charon’s contract rebels and pushes, an agonizing tide but then something breaks, spills over. He still thinks he might vomit or black out but he snatches the knife from her hand, grabs her arm and pushes the blade against her skin until it breaks. 

Eva might have screamed and jumped but he can’t tell though his own tremors. Something rumbles in his chest that could have been a snarl, growling like he’s gone feral. He certainly doesn’t feel human; his whole being focusing in on the blood dripping down her arm. Even though this is all he’s ever wanted, the chance for revenge, the ability to commit harm to a current employer, it stills sickens him to see his hand clutching the knife, to watch the blade split Eva’s flesh. Yet there is the order, pushing him, taking control. He can do nothing to fight it, he never could. 

Finally, Eva pulls away, clapping her hand over the wound but her demand hasn’t been withdrawn and he follows, slashing at the air in front of her. She stumbles back and this order, some wires have crossed and he’s never felt the compulsion so strong. He lunges, knocking her to the floor and digs the knife into her shoulder, deep, deeper. He holds her down. This time he’s certain she screams. 

In the fall, she has lost her towel and there’s so much skin to cut, he could go on forever. The knife traces along a rib, over a collar bone, down her stomach. Charon wants to stop, has never wanted something more. Eva isn’t pale anymore. She’s nothing but red and he knows he can’t cut too deeply, he can’t kill her, so he has to spread it out and make her redder…

Eva is breaking apart beneath him and Charon is certain he’ll follow. 

Finally, finally real words push through her scream, rips out of her. 

“Charon, stop!” and it’s over. 

He jerks away from her, flings the knife across the room. 

It imbeds its self in the wood wall, just to the left of the front door. 

Eva sits up slower, dripping, not bothering to grab for her abandoned towel and Charon’s certain he’s never seen anything more horrible. At one point, he cut her face and blood drips from her chin to her carved-up stomach. Her wrist is bruised from where he  
held her down. He’s even traced three long red cuts down her right breast. 

No one has ever made him do something this heinous. 

He struggles to his feet, rushing for the drawer where they store the emergency stimpaks. When he returns, he finds Eva laughing quietly, staring down at her blood-stained towel, twisting it in her hands. 

“I was so certain that was going to work.” She looks up when the first stimpak pierces her skin, expression distant. Charon’s hands are shaking but he manages three more successful shots before she stops him with a light touch. Her wounds are healing up before his eyes, skin knitting together into bright pink scars. 

Raised scars. 

He hadn’t even thought to look for newer stimpaks and now, as he watches the cut on her jaw heal into something knotted and ugly, the knife in his stomach twists. Now she will be marked by this forever. 

He lets his head drop but he can’t escape the damage he’s done. Even healed she is hard to look at. The wounds may be gone but the blood is still there, still fresh and tacky on her skin. Almost mindlessly, he tugs the towel from her hands and wraps it around her. Her nakedness brings a whole new twisted horror to the image and he can’t stand it any longer. Eva takes the action in stride, pulling it tighter more from instinct then any actual need from privacy. The aftereffects of her injuries finally set in and she starts to shiver. 

Charon has never hated himself for following an order, he can’t help it so why should he, but as Eva curls in on herself, pushing through the shock of pain and wounds her body needs to heal but can no longer find, he does. 

He hates himself, he hates his contract, but he doesn’t hate her. 

When her trembling fades, he carefully pulls Eva to her feet and leads her back towards the shower. He starts the water and she steps under it mindlessly, still wearing her ruined towel draped around her shoulders like a trauma blanket. Just as he’s leaving, he hears her voice, still distant, lost. 

“I’m sorry.” Eva is watching him cautiously, like she’s failed him, like he might be angry. 

“I don’t want to own you. I’m so sorry.” 

He tries to answer, opens his mouth, closes it again. He can’t find a single word so he just shakes his head, a worthless response to the woman he just mutilated, and stumbles out the door. The contradicting orders seem to have left him weak, drained and it’s difficult to get up the stairs. 

He almost makes it to his room before his legs give out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this one got pretty dark. I hope it didn't upset anyone and I hope everyone's reactions came across as authentic. Eva definitely does not have enough self preservation (which will definitely be explored further!) I just really don't want this to veer into melodramatic.
> 
> Again, thank you for all the support and kudos. It's nice knowing there are people out there reading this, otherwise it would be tempting to just leave the story in my head. :p I hope you all enjoy the chapter! Thanks for reading!


	13. Eva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

Eva’s gone. 

Charon hasn’t seen her in eight days. 

She left a note on the table, asking him to stay behind. It was carefully worded to not be a command, the page covered in smears from an old eraser scrubbing out mistakes. He left the paper where he found it, too uncertain about its contents to dwell on it at the time. As her absence grew longer, Charon found himself carefully avoiding it, eyes skimming over the note like it wasn’t there. At other times, he’d find himself reading it again and again, searching for some clue as to when she’d be back, if she’d be back.

He couldn’t find a thing. 

Now it’s been two days and Charon is losing his mind. There’s nothing to do in this damn house. Without Eva around there is no reason to go outside, no one to interact with. 

He used to be so good at waiting, pushing emotion and thought away until he was empty. If he let everything fade to gray, time didn’t really seem to exist but now it seems he’s grown accustomed to activity. Even during the storm, there was another person around to make the waiting less stagnate. This uncertainty…he can barely handle it. 

He’s read every faded book they have, shuffled and dealt their playing cards until the corners frayed. His gun is cleaner than it’s ever been, every gun in the house is cleaner than it’s ever been. 

Charon’s resorted to pacing, circling first the interior of the building and then the exterior, wandering further each time until he grows tired enough to sleep.

He’s thinking about circling this whole forsaken town when he hears something crash inside the house. 

It’s humiliating but he doesn’t notice he’s rushed back until he’s standing on the front porch, breathing a little faster than he should be. The door is slightly ajar and the unbidden image of Eva stumbling through, slumped over and sick from radiation sickness comes to mind. 

The thought is jarring. 

Suddenly hesitant, Charon pushes the door open. 

Eva isn’t home, her pack isn’t by the door, her gun isn’t in its place. She’s still nowhere to be found. Unfortunately, the newly reactivated Mr. Handy is. 

It hovers in the kitchen, servers whirling in aggravation at the mess Charon hasn’t bothered to clean up. 

“I would have guessed you’d be away as well.” The robot jostles a dirty dish with one disapproving flick. How a robotic voice can sound so full of disdain is beyond him.

“Has Ms. Eva grown tired of you already?” 

The robot tuts at the mess in the sink, whirring just a little faster in annoyance. Charon bristles. Of all the unpleasantness he didn’t need, this irritation’s reactivation is top on the list. 

Charon doesn’t bother answering, just shrugs past and heads up the stairs. It must have woken from its sleep mode and without Eva around to restart it, it’ll be best to leave it to its own devices. 

Still, the last thing Charon wants to do is sit and wait in his bedroom like some lonesome suitor and when he reaches his door, he finds himself hesitating. In his boredom, he has explored every room in this house, searching mindlessly for nothing in particular. They’ve all be relatively unexciting but there’s one spot he hasn’t thought to investigate. The room adjacent from his. 

Charon eyes Eva’s door almost guiltily. He’s only been inside the room once but he’d been too focused on his distressed employer to notice more than the bare minimum. As he stares, he finds himself rationalizing. There might be some hint as to where she went, how much longer she’ll be gone. He edges towards it, if anything he knows she has a collection of comic books and, while that’s not his usual taste, it’s better than staring at a wall for the umpteenth hour. 

What is he doing, hovering outside her door like some anxious child? It’s just a room. 

He grabs the handle, a little too hard to be natural, and pushes his way inside. 

The air that rushes out smells stale, dusty from being closed up for so long. Charon steps inside, looking around for some hint as to her whereabouts even as he realizes it was just an excuse to enter her room. Maybe he is searching for answers but he knows he won’t find them here. She would never leave a note for him in a place she wouldn’t expect him to check but, as his eyes pass over each of Eva’s possessions, her personal touches, he realizes that this was the place he was bound to end up. Eva has been the only thing on his mind lately, the only thought he can’t quite seem to push away. It’s no surprise he’d be drawn to her room, the closest thing he can get without her around. 

He’s been trying so hard not to think about the night before she left. Watching her skin split under his hands, the blood, the puckering of her flesh as the wounds knitted together into scars, all of it has been beating against the back of his mind.  
It’s the most horrifying thing he’s been ordered to do...with the kindest intentions. 

Charon’s been avoiding the images as much as he can, pushing them away like they’re a threat. The last time he saw her, she was more injured then he’d ever seen her but it’s her expression he doesn’t want to see. That shame, the genuine sadness that her misguided attempt to free him hadn’t worked, it was too much.

Yet somehow, the worst of it is the conclusion he hadn’t even realized he’d come to. It wasn’t something he decided on consciously but, as the days passed and Charon tried harder and harder not to think about her, it became more and more obvious. 

He likes Eva.

She’s not perfect, not by a long shot, but he likes her anyway. She’s the most amiable employer he’s ever had, capable and a decent shot. With her, he doesn’t have to worry about when he’s going to eat next, what horrible new thing he’ll be forced to do. Despite everything, she seems to be a decent person. 

She’s the first person to ever try to break his contract. 

That’s the thought that he’s really trying to avoid, isn't it? What kind of person has he become that it takes the sight of Eva, bloodied and shaking, to get him to stop hating her? That look on her face when she apologized, like she’d failed him. Even if it is a lie, if the bleeding-heart act is just there to help her sleep at night, there are actions behind her words. She tries. 

His anger at her still feels real, legitimate. She bought him, he has every right to despise her. Yet if she actually has good intentions, if she at least views him as more than a means to an end, it burns to see how long it’s taken him to see it. How long has she been trying before he noticed?

Charon trails a hand over the faded blanket tucked neatly over her bed. It’s such an unusual habit that if he hadn’t already known she was from a vault, he probably would have guessed it from the sight. Now that he’s here, he barely knows what to do. He wanted to address this confusion but being surrounded by the reminder of her isn’t helping. Wearily, he drops onto her bed, crumpling the blanket in the process, and lets his head fall to his hands. What is he going to do about this? 

For as long as he can remember, Charon has survived off of hatred. The little spiteful rebellions, twisting any order as much as he can, trying to make his employers fail, it’s what’s kept him going. How is he supposed to act around Eva now? He doesn’t know how to leave anger in the past. He’s not even certain who he is without it. 

Downstairs, a door creaks open but Charon doesn’t notice. A robot sputters excitedly and then indignantly, ratting out the enemy ghoul who entered his owners room without permission. 

Charon is too busy thinking to notice. Every little kindness is whirling through his mind now. The blankets in his room, her encouraging him to personalize his space, the attempts to give him what freedom she can, seeing it all in this new light twists her intentions, makes them less irritating and into something too new, too unfamiliar for Charon to know what to do with. On their travels, she asks after his comfort, his hunger, his exhaustion. It’s more than he can handle. 

Charon is feeling a guilty shame for the first time in a long while and he hates it. 

He doesn’t hear the footsteps until they are right beside him, doesn’t hear the tired laugh. 

“Boo.” 

Charon actually jumps, jerking back at the sight of Eva, clothes torn and hair bedraggled, looking in all the world like his own guilt come to haunt him. His eyes drop to her arm, where her sleeve is ripped clear away, and trace along three brand new scars. They are thick and still an angry red. They must have been deep. 

“What happened to your arm?” Here he is, questioning her when she finds him sulking on her bed, but he’d rather address that then what she may be thinking at the sight of him.

Eva looks down, nearly puzzled and lifts her arm higher. He can see the scars twist, almost entirely encircling her. It looks like something had her in a tight grip and refused to let go. He sees flashing eyes and devil horns bursting through a cave wall and knows without asking what caught her. 

“Oh, yeah.” Eva smirks and bitterly traces her fingertips along the marks. “I think I’m starting to collect them.” 

Her words force him to look closer. It’s the first time Charon has seen her since his attack and it’s difficult not to look away. Stretching across her body, peeking out from every hem, over every curve and bone are scars then he can count, most of which he can recall carving into her. 

One pale white line, long and thin, runs down her cheek and he remembers curving the tip to maintain the same depth of cut, enough to be classified as ‘deep’ but not enough to risk her bleeding out beneath him. 

He finds three over her knuckles and he can feel the bumps as the knife hit bone. Too many to count cover her arms but he can spot the first cut, can still feel the mania that hit when he broke her skin. 

Charon looks back at her face. She watched him look her over, pick out each scar of his own doing. She smiles at him, crooked and faint. 

“Hey.” Eva steps closer and there’s a bright wash of red over her cheeks and nose, a deep burn. “I forgive you.”

“I’m sorry I made you do that.”

That hurts. 

Charon stares up at her, more vulnerable then he can ever recall being. She has caught him thinking of her, has spoken the exact words he needed to hear, words he hadn’t even realized he’d needed, and now she is watching him and he is trapped. Trapped in her forgiveness, trapped in her knowing, her understanding. 

Trapped by how little he hates her. 

“I…” His voice cracks, breaks away.

“I am sorry.” Gazing up at her, it feels like benediction, tastes like salvation. He is exposed, defenseless. Everything is out in the light, ready to be burned, and there is nothing he can do but wait. 

“For hurting you.” 

He can’t tell if her eyes are pink from emotion or sunburn but Eva’s nose crinkles and she steps closer, knees against knees and wraps her arms around him, presses his head tight against her stomach. He should want to recoil. She smells like dirt, old blood and sour sweat but her skin is warm through the rough fabric of her shirt and nothing makes sense right now. Her actions should repulse him, infuriate him but Eva suffered for his benefit, tried to help him, save him like all the others. Treated him like he matters. 

Slowly, each tight knot in his muscles releases and he lets his head drop, lets himself accept her comfort. 

Light fingers thread through what’s left of his hair and he lets his hands rise, fists them tight in the extra fabric at her waist. Later he can pull away, withdraw back to something professional, something that at least resembles what makes sense to him, what he knows but now Eva is back and he needs this. 

Hunched over in her little room, held tight by someone so small, too small to fill the space up so completely, Charon accepts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to proof read this about a million times more but it has taken me too long to post this chapter! I hope you all like it and this is far from the end. It's only the first time Charon's been able to let go of his anger and it will take a lot of practice for him to keep that up. Thank you all so much for the encouragement! If not for knowing you're out there, I would have probably given up by this point. Thank you :)


	14. Where Did You Go?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon watches the sunrise with Eva as he struggles to adjust to the change in his feelings towards her.

“Where did you go?” 

Pale dawn light has just begun to spill over the hills to the east but it’s a long ways away from reaching their tiny deck. When Eva turns to him her face is in shadow.

“Different places. Nowhere in particular.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, shrugging. “I wanted to find someone to help.”

Her motion pulls Charon’s attention down to her hand. Even in the dim light, her scars are obvious, crisscrossing like cracks all down her skin. She looks as if she’s been shattered and then poorly glued back together and Charon finds himself wondering just how accurate that image is. 

He looks away before she can catch him staring, focusing on the faint wisps of orange bleeding out over the horizon.

“Did you?” His words crackle out of him, his ruined vocal chords changing the inflection from questioning to nearly accusatory. 

Muted pink joins the orange and Charon keeps his eyes on the sunrise when she answers. 

He’s not angry at her, not anymore, but the hole the emotion left behind is still there. It feels like a pit, deep in his chest, and Eva is on the other side, so far away he can barely see her. Time will make the distance fade, Charon knows, but until then she is unreachable. 

Eva’s voice sounds emotionless when she answers, carefully casual. 

“A few. I saved some kids from super mutants…not all of them though.” Eva’s eyes are fixed on the horizon but she seems to be seeing something else entirely.

“They were so fucking young. I…” she sighs, running a hand over her face. “How can anyone be that young out here?”

A moment of silence passes. 

“There was a bit there when I didn’t think I was coming back.”

The light still hasn’t reached them but it’s bright enough to see her grimace. Her words sound like a confession. 

“I know that’s stupid. I still don’t really understand what would happen to you if I died but I know it wouldn’t help.”

Charon can’t keep his eyes off her. He’s never seen a person wear their emotions so openly, each thought flickering across her face clear as day. Now, however, he can’t quite tell what she’s feeling. 

“Don’t you care if you die?” She doesn’t seem to at times, her interactions with Moira alone are nearly suicidal. She flinches at his question, turning a little further away from him. She shakes her head. 

“Not if it’s for something important.” The color pouring out over the sky makes Eva look even paler, leeching any pigment she’s managed to gain over the months away until it’s too easy to imagine her dead. Something inside Charon pulls tight at the thought, some little part of him that knows she’s the closest thing he’s had to a friend. 

He shifts on his feet, feels the space between them grow wider, hyper aware of the distance. 

Eva continues, mindlessly twisting the fabric of her night shirt. 

“My dad died helping the world.” Her voice is tight, restrained. “He gave us one of the most important things for survival. Who knows how many people he’s saved.” She pulls the fabric taut, hands clenched into fists. “Sometimes I think I missed my chance.” 

Charon chuckles bitterly. “You’ll get a lot more chances out here, you don’t need to worry about that.”

Eva spins towards him, the sudden change in her demeanor jarring. 

“How else can you die out here? Either it will be quick and violent and I’ll die bleeding out on the ground with nothing to show for it or it’s slow and I’ll waste away, too hungry or irradiated to move.” Her tone is harsh but not quite angry, bubbling over with emotion. 

“You don’t die of old age out here, you die once you can’t take care of yourself anymore. What kind of death is that? What kind of way is that to go?” 

One angry tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t seem to notice it, the tiny drop trembling at the bottom of her chin. He wonders… if they were closer, would he wipe it away? But the pit between them is still deep and he doesn’t. 

He just holds his ground and waits. 

“What am I even worth? Nothing I do seems to matter! I tried to stop the slavers but the prisoners died anyway. I tried to let you go but you’re still stuck here.” She scrubs at her face furiously, wiping away the tears herself. “If my death could help someone, really help someone then maybe that would be better.” 

Her last words seem to drain the energy out of her and she turns away. Their tiny porch extends out over the ground and when she sits, her feet dangle limply above it. She looks so impossibly small. 

When she finally speaks, her voice is weary, heavy with a weight Charon realizes he’s only just glimpsed.

“Sometimes I can see the point of existing. I can watch the sun rise and smell the air and I know I have some things that make me happy but I’m alone. Once Moira is done with her book she won’t need me anymore and the only other person I have is you.” 

She sniffs, her laugh changing to a tearful hiccup half way through.

“The only person I have is you and you’re only here because you can’t leave.” Eva drops her head, sickly pale hands fisted loosely in her hair. 

“I’ve trapped you.” 

Charon lowers himself down next to her, planting his own feet firmly on the dirt beneath them. He’s a little closer then he would usually choose to be and she seems to appreciate it, leaning slightly towards him even with her head in her hands. 

He’s not certain what to do, one gnarled hand hovering awkwardly over her back. Eva loves contact, came from a world with an abundance into a life nearly devoid of it. She craves it. 

To Charon it is foreign, invasive but to Eva it is comfort and clearly that’s what she needs. And now, after everything, he finds he wants to be able to offer that comfort. His fingers twitch slightly, uncertainty making his hand waver in the air but then carefully, stiffly, he lowers it down to her shoulder. 

Eva doesn’t seem to notice the action, not even when his grip tightens enough to change from a phantom touch to something solid. 

Her shoulder feels so slight in his hand and, while Charon expected a response from Eva, he’s surprised at his own reaction. The instinctive need to hold tighter, pull closer is strange and sudden. It must be something left over from the person he was before, some old muscle memory from a prewar world of casual contact. As he pulls her closer, tucking her into his side in a gruff half embrace, Charon wonders who he did this with before. Did he have friends once, a sibling, a lover? Who did he use to hold? 

Nothing comes back, no old memories, no faces. The person he used to be is long gone, buried beneath years of servitude and a too tampered with mind. As far as he knows, Eva is the first person he’d held this closely. 

The sun has risen enough for the colors to fade but it’s not a bright day. Grayish clouds have already begun to clog the sky, blocking out the warm yellow of morning light. 

Eva finally responds, pressing in tighter against him, molding herself into his arm until she’s as close as she can be. 

She’s very warm. 

Eva doesn’t raise her head when she speaks next, stays curled into her new shelter like she can block out the world. 

“I almost died finishing what my dad started. Sometimes it feels like I was meant to and just….didn’t.” 

He can feel her tense for a moment. 

“I think I lived past my own ending.” 

Charon doesn’t answer her for a few minutes, mulling over this new information. It makes sense, fits well into his understanding of her. He picks his next words carefully. 

“Pointless martyrdom is useless. Dying doesn’t make you noble, it just makes you dead.” He runs his hand over what’s left of his hair, searching for the right phrasing. “People die for good reasons and bad reasons but, for the most part, it’s for no reason.”

His thumb is rubbing small circles on her shoulder, rough skin catching on the fabric. It’s a comforting action that he never would have thought of consciously. Another mysterious muscle memory but useful. He can feel the tension draining out of her. 

“Death isn’t the finale, it’s just the end of the sentence.” 

Eva snorts at his words, the weakest laugh he’s ever heard from her but it’s something. 

“Maybe you’re right.” She sits up a little, dropping her hands to her thighs and staring blindly at some vague spot in front of her. “But maybe not. If I died back then I would have died a hero but now no one will notice.” When she looks up at him, her bloodshot eyes seem tired, hopeless. 

“I don’t care about glory really but that must mean something. If no one knows I’m gone then I just faded away after I finished being useful. Doesn’t that matter?” She’s searching his face for answers and he’s briefly struck at how little she flinches away from his ravaged features. It’s an oddly pleasant realization. 

Charon doesn’t break their eye contact. He wants to tell her it doesn’t matter, why should strangers being aware of her matter, but she looks so achingly vulnerable and he doesn’t want to shatter this fragile new something between them. So instead he just tells her his first immediate thought. 

“I will.” It’s morbid, not something anyone should take comfort out of but it’s true. “For better or worse, we’re stuck with each other and unless something happens, I’ll outlive you.” 

He looks out over the town. People have begun their days, indistinct in the distance, faceless forms going about their lives. Charon will most likely outlive all of them. It doesn’t bother him, hasn’t in a long time but when he thinks about the very specific person tucked against his side, something twists. 

Beside him he hears her let out a relieved sigh, feels her sit taller. 

“I guess that’s true.” She’s smiling faintly, her expression drained but lighter. 

“That’s nice. Thanks Charon.” 

When she stands, he follows her numbly inside. 

His chest hurts and with Eva's relief comes his own turmoil. He has lived so many lives, met so many people but this odd comradery is new. 

She might find comfort in her lesser lifespan but Charon doesn’t. 

He's not certain he can watch Eva die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you!  
> You all have left me the sweetest comments, I have no words. Every time I read one I just want to immediately start up a new chapter. You've been so encouraging and kind. I'm just so happy you're enjoying the story and I hope you like this next chapter. This and the last one mark the turn in the story and I'm so excited to get started on it!


	15. That First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva and Charon have set up camp.

It’s been a month and things have begun to settle. The confusion and turmoil have faded, the stress building to a boiling point, snapping and finally settling into something resembling calm. Not hating Eva has been strange but Charon is adjusting, pushing away the instinct to flinch at her proximity, scowl at her presence. The change is unnerving, leaving him uncertain on his feet, clumsy and wavering but it’s happening. Slowly but surely, he’s learning to move on. 

The wind is warm tonight, picking up sparks and smoke from the campfire and swirling them rapidly into the still darkening sky. Eva has settled down for the evening, jacket flung to the side and pack unbuckled and flipped sideways for a makeshift backrest.  
She is roasting a chunk of molerat meat, still pink and dripping fat into the sputtering flames. 

Charon watches her unabashedly. 

He’s not certain if it’s the change in their relationship or her odd forwardness rubbing off on him but he’s found himself staring more and more, no longer trying to disguise the scrutinizing glances he sends her way. 

A bit of color has finally begun to stain her skin, dulling the worst of her visible veins to something more sickly then inhuman. Her scars still stand out however, even in the cool evening light they are an angry pink. The nausea they induce has also failed to fade though he’s learned to ignore it. If it wasn’t for that hideous attempt to free him, Eva would still be just another owner to despise and, eventually, dispose of. They may still be sickening but they’re a good reminder that she is no longer the enemy. 

A thick droplet of fat hits the wood and sizzles, releasing a scent both savory and rancid into the dry twilight air. 

Eva just keeps changing and it’s an uncomfortable reminder of her mortality. Charon has been the same for so long, it’s odd being around someone so in flux. 

Unsettling. 

Her long brown hair is shorter now, chopped haphazardly after a raider managed to get a solid grip on her by snatching up the thick strands during a fight in particularly close quarters. Charon managed to creep up on them, slitting the raider’s throat rather messily but freeing Eva before the attacker could inflict any permanent damage. She cut her hair off that night, snipping away large chunks with a rusty pair of scissors while her Mr. Handy tutted fretfully in the corner.  
Now her hair curls around her face, wild without much weight to hold it down. Along with her scars and slightly tinted skin, Eva almost looks like she belongs out here now, biting into the prize from her own kill as she stretches out on the cracked, deadened earth beneath her. 

She smiles when she catches him watching, gesturing at the skewered meat still roasting in a silent offer. 

Charon shrugs it away. Something in him is wistful this evening, empty and lighter then he’s used to feeling. Tonight, he is almost unsubstantial and something as solid and real as food sounds too material, too grounding. 

Maybe it’s just because he’s tired, exhausted to that point of faded consciousness, where everything is inconsequential and surreal or maybe it’s because he’s still flushed with this new sort of relief that he has yet to adjust too. Either way, he knows it’s an indulgent sensation to succumb to but he’s old, older then he has any right to be but without much of a life to show for it. He has more freedom now then he can ever remember having and if he wants to spend a night drifting and thoughtless then he’s damn well going to.

He looks up at the stars and watches them blur and sharpen as his eyes go in and out of focus. He smells the smoke from the fire and the dust in the breeze. He breaths. 

Eventually Eva finishes her meal and, unsurprisingly, works her way around the fire. Charon can see her settle down beside him, just her blurred movements in the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t react until he feels one of her still too-smooth hands close around his own. Before he would have jerked away, either insulted or disgusted at the sudden contact but now he just turns a half questioning stare her way. 

Eva is sitting directly beside him, legs crossed and cradling his hand in both of hers like it’s something delicate. She’s not looking at him, not holding his hand as a gesture but instead staring at it, focus knotting her brows and hunching her shoulders. 

It’s his left hand. The skin is slightly less destroyed but no less hideous. Tendons bulge horribly along the back, highlighted by pitted skin so rough and hard it feels more like an old callous then functioning flesh. A large chunk of his thumb is missing, a wound he can no longer remember obtaining, and several nails are long gone, either ripped away or rotted off. He isn’t sure. 

Slowly and far too gently, Eva traces along each finger, her own dipping and raising over his various scars and knots. She avoids touching the tips of his fingers that are missing nails and he can just see the twist of her mouth as she grimaces at the sight. Another night he might have been offended but he’s too tired. 

Tonight, he just agrees. 

“Does it hurt?” She’s watching him through her lashes and he’s hit with a wave of déjà vu even though he can pinpoint the exact moment she’s reminding him of. The question has the same hesitance, the same thick layer of concern but now she’s touching him, now she’s all the way around the fire and he doesn’t hate her and he doesn’t want to lie to her. She’s not a stranger and the small human hands holding his are warm and rapidly becoming familiar. 

His answer lodges in his throat. 

Eva looks away, back to his suddenly stiff hand, and slowly turns it until his palm is facing upwards. The pits on this side are deeper, the scars more jagged. Wounds still visible from the beginning of his ghoulification, the blurry half memories of desperation, the need to use his hands even while he’s still rotting, skin sloughing off in huge chunks as he maneuvers guns, scrambles through ruined doorways. They’re carved into him. 

She fingers a particularly rough patch of skin and he can almost remember the feeling of it tearing, catching in…something…and ripping away. He flinches. Eva doesn’t notice. 

“I know you said it didn’t but you’re missing some nails. If I touch them, will it hurt?” Her eyes are back on his, so sincere, so concerned. 

He can’t find the words. 

He shakes his head. 

Eva half smiles, that familiar look of relief clear as day, and lightly touches each tip. 

Charon nearly shivers, something heavy drops to the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t pull away. 

The breeze is still warm but now it feels hot, catching on every gruesome detail of him, tugging at rough flesh. Eva explores every inch of his hand, feather light touches tracing out injuries he can’t remember but can suddenly feel. 

It hurts. 

He doesn’t want her to stop. 

Finally, he thinks she’s finished. The hand not cradling his pulls away, hovers over his own. Even her trigger callouses are soft compared to him. Charon’s not certain whether he’s relieved or if he misses the contact. Maybe both. Just as he adjusts to her pulling away, she’s back, fingertips now stroking up his wrist, the exposed flesh of his arm, culminating at the crook of his elbow and then back down. He fights back a shudder. 

“Can you feel this? Are there still nerve endings this close to the surface?” Eva just sounds inquisitive, curious and Charon envies her for it. Why does she always do things like this when his guard is down? 

He swallows. His ‘yes’ is still rougher, still catches in his throat, but with already rotted vocal chords, he doubts she can tell. 

Her slow tracing stutters at his response but she continues after a moment, touch somehow even lighter. Most of her face is hidden by her newly short hair, wild tangles blocking a full view, but Charon’s certain he can see a tinge of pink color her ears and cheeks. 

It makes him feel a little better. 

A little worse.

Eva pauses at his wrist, fingertips pressed against his pulse and damn it, his heart is definitely beating faster and there’s no way she can’t notice, no chance it isn’t blaringly obvious so he twists his hand and catches hers up before it becomes any more blaringly clear how much she’s affecting him. 

Eva looks up at him, confused and he smirks, trying for casual but probably coming across as predatory. 

“My turn.” 

She laughs instead, relaxing in his grip like it’s a completely reasonable response. 

Charon looks down at the delicate hand now in his clasp. He hadn’t actually intended to return her actions, just wanted to stop whatever was happening to him from becoming obvious. Now that he has a hold of her, he’s not certain what to do. At least she had something ghoulish to explore, her hand is relatively unscathed. What can he do with it that won’t seem horrifically tender? 

Uncertain, he twists her hand like she had, exposing her palm. Three dark freckles dot her wrist. Cautiously, he thumbs the fleshy part of her hand, traces the lines in her palm and tries not to think about what he’s doing. Her hand is limp in his, relaxed and trusting and she is too close, too soft. Why is this happening? How did it get this far?

Eva’s nails are short and freshly parred, cut irregular with a sharp knife. He touches each of her scars, some of which he recognizes, too many he can recall inflicting himself. 

Distantly, he is aware that he’s barely breathing but he can’t bring himself to pull in anymore air. Eva seems to have forgotten as well, both of their attention focused elsewhere, on her hand in his. 

Charon brings his other hand up, spreads her fingers and touches skin too soft to not be hypnotic. If he were human, it would be different. He would be just as smooth and stroking her open palm wouldn’t hurt, wouldn’t pull something in his chest tight with envy and longing. He wouldn’t be jealous or frustrated. He wouldn’t want to touch her more because he would feel the same way. 

Right?

Eva remembers to breath before he does and releases a shuddering breath, hard enough that the warmth of it joins the breeze on his skin. She’s no longer watching their hands, she’s watching him and he can’t stop himself from returning her stare. 

She is too close. 

The evening light has faded and the darkness presses in on them, the warm glow of the fire only making her proximity more obvious. He can see faint freckles scattered across her cheeks as well, ones he wasn’t aware of until now. Ones he hasn’t touched. Her hand is still in his but he can’t see it, can’t look away from the pale eyes focused on him. 

His grip tightens. She is so incredibly close. 

When did she start squeezing his hand back? 

Besides them, the fire sparks and Eva glances away, slipping her hand from his so quickly it’s like it was never there. For a moment, it doesn’t register and he closes his grip, searching for her. 

Eva tosses another log into the fire, the light in their camp spreading as the wood catches aflame. She’s much further away then he remembers. 

Even with the heat of the flames and the warm night air, Charon feels inexplicably cold. The dreamlike state he was in has vanished and now he just feels drained. Eva has moved further away from him, further even then she usually sits. For a moment, she won’t look away from the fire and when she does, her expression is strange, difficult to read. 

“I’m glad,’ Eva hesitates, ‘that it doesn’t hurt.” 

She smiles but she isn’t happy. It’s an inversion of their first night, her words coming first and the expression following. Not relieved but revealed. 

Guilt. 

She doesn’t say anything else, just goes and lays down on her cot. Charon stays by the fire, waits for her breathing to even out, fade into the gentle rhythm of sleep. It never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! Thank you for all the kudos and kind words of encouragement. I'm sorry I vanished for a while. This chapter has been rewritten so many times and I hope I'm not jumping the gun but I do like how it turned out so I'm going to share it and hope you like it too! It was a lot of fun to write those parallels from the first chapter. :)
> 
> Again, I can never say thanks enough for everything. Thank you, thank you, thank you!


	16. Break It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been an incredibly bad day.

They’re still an hour away from Megaton and Eva’s limping is getting worse. Her arm is hooked around Charon’s neck and he can feel one long streak of blood dripping down his back. Her breathing is labored, coming out in little puffs between gritted teeth. He’s not fairing much better. 

The day had seemed almost cursed from the start. Twice they stumbled over enemies they should have heard coming. The supermutant luckily had been slow enough to take down without much damage but not before it had slammed Charon to the ground with enough force to crack a rib. The raiders had been significantly quicker and they both left the fight with severe enough injuries to take up a majority of their stimpaks. 

They hid in an old Pulowski reservation shelter, pressed tight over old bones as they injected each other. Charon thinks he can still smell it on them, that stomach twisting combination of rusted steel and bone dust. By the time they left, the metal and blood had combined into a stench so heavy in the air he could almost feel it as he breathed, sitting heavy in his lungs. 

Still, they would have made it home if they hadn’t stumbled onto that mine field. 

From experience, they knew where the field was, having visited it months ago on one of Moira’s maddeningly dangerous quests. Eva thought they could skirt it, cutting their time back to Megaton and ensuring that at least one side would lack any living threats, but it extended further than either of them had known and three had triggered at their heavy footsteps. 

The first explosion threw them back far enough that the damage from the following two were minimized but the shrapnel was bad enough. Eva took the worst of it, with one particularly large shard of metal lodged in her knee and countless others ripping her left side to shreds. They couldn’t stay by such a volatile area, uncertain as they were of where the mine field even ended so Charon scooped Eva’s arm over his neck and they made a slow path towards the nearest building in sight. 

Now he’s clutching at his partner, trying to support the weight of her pack as well as her stumbling body while her knee begins to lock up from the pain. The hint of the roof he was heading for is now almost entirely in sight. It looks to be surprisingly intact, their first real stroke of luck for the day, and he hears Eva’s heavy breathing stutter on what could be a sigh of relief. They reach the door just as her leg buckles and he scoops her up, carrying her through the doorway in a morbid recreation of a groom with his bride. 

It’s a long-abandoned bar, littered with empty bottles and shattered furniture but the bar in the back is still standing so Charon makes a beeline for it, shattered glass crunching beneath his boots with each step. 

Eva has wrapped her other arm around his neck and, when he sets her down on the bar, she seems reluctant to let go, drunk on pain and clearly oblivious to how tightly she’s holding him. He has to pry her arms away from his neck and the moment he does, she wraps them around her stomach, hunching forward and grimacing at the dirty floor. He knows that they used up every stimpak in her bag so he drops his own pack from his shoulders and starts to search, trying to ignore the muted sounds of pain Eva is trying to disguise.

Charon finally finds five extra stims at the bottom of the bag, wrapped carefully in some semi-decent leather Eva had found the week before and some of the tension he hadn’t even been aware of eases out of his back and shoulders. 

Eva’s shivering when he returns to the bar, eyes fixed on nothing and both hands clamped over the top of her knee. She flinches when he lifts them away, jerks when he tears the fabric around the wound but doesn’t scream until he pulls out the long shard of shrapnel, a short burst that sounds painful, as if he can hear her throat going raw with the force of it. 

Charon tosses the chunk of metal behind him, realizing too late that she’s littered with the stuff and he probably should have saved the worst one for last. Her shivering has changed from the light trembling induced by stress to the violent involuntary kind. Her pale eyes have left the empty space they were focused on and now are trained on him, watery and pained. The trust he sees there is unnerving, weighing down on him when he returns to his bag to search for tweezers. He thinks he can feel her gaze on his back. 

It’s six minutes of picking metal out of her body and four more while he searches for any he missed. At one point her hand finds its way to his shirt, clutching tightly at the fabric. He feels the edge of it tug each time he pulls another shard from her body and by the end of it, when he’s certain he’s found every piece, each sharp jerk might as well be the pinch of tweezers in his own skin. 

It’s sweet relief when he can finally reach for the stimpaks, using up four of them before she catches his hand, forces his to put one aside for himself. The contract has been twisting in the back of his mind, a dull throbbing headache fading in and out with sharps bursts of pain but once she’s no longer in danger it fades, leaving behind a tightness in his lungs that he’s not certain has anything to do with the yellowed piece of paper in her breast pocket. 

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and drops his head until his forehead rests against hers. Eva is still perched on the bar and he’s too relieved to move away, the tension of the day turning the release into a temporary exhaustion. He props himself up on the edge of the counter, hands on either side of her and Eva gives his wrist a light squeeze, either of thanks or reassurance, he isn’t certain. 

For a moment, they just breath, both relishing the quiet safety of the abandoned building.

Charon pulls away first, uncomfortably aware of how little her physical proximity had bothered him and checks himself over for shrapnel while Eva rests on the bar. When he finds nothing, he uses up the last stimpak, focusing on the always unsettling sensation of tissue knitting together on its own instead of the foreign impulse to return to their previous position, to stay too close to her. 

Behind him, he can hear Eva rummaging through her own pack, searching for something to replace the shredded clothing she has on now. He can hear her tug something out of the bag, the slide of rough fabric as she changes, the quiet thump when she drops the ruined set on the floor. He doesn’t turn around until he hears glass crunch underfoot as she jumps down. 

“You okay, Charon?” She’s watching him carefully, concern he isn’t accustomed to plain on her face. He nods gruffly, still shaken. 

“That was sudden, wasn’t it?” She’s laughing a little, the sort of laugh that only appears when something is so awful it’s nearly amusing. Dried blood is smeared across her cheek, stains her hands and she rubs it off as she sighs. 

“What a fucking day. Every little thing…” she trails off, looking around the bar absently. He follows her gaze. The building is surprisingly intact, the door still in place and the windows more cracked then shattered. It’s clearly been picked over, any full bottles are long gone but it’s littered with empty ones, the dingy glass glinting in the afternoon light making its way through the windows. 

“I just…” Eva huffs, frustrated and wanders over to an old beer bottle, staring down at it like she isn’t certain what it is. She picks it up, rolling it thoughtfully in her hand. “Today just wasn’t our day,huh?” 

Her hair is wild and she runs one hand through it absently, tugging at the roots like she would be tearing her hair out if she had the energy to. 

“Damn it…” her brows pinch together and she exhales forcefully, still staring at the bottle in her hand. Charon almost steps towards her. She looks so frustrated, so lost and he’s not certain what to do. He doesn’t like that expression, doesn’t understand why it’s bothering him so much, isn’t used to empathy yet. 

He’s confused, still hesitating, when Eva suddenly twists and violently hurls the bottle against the wall. 

Charon takes a step back but she’s laughing, genuinely this time, breathless as the glass shatters and she’s grinning when she looks at him.

“Let’s break every bottle in here.” Eva scoops up another beer bottle and tosses it to him, her smile gone conspiratorial. 

Charon catches it uncertainly, quirking a long-gone eyebrow until she grabs another bottle for herself and chucks it. It smashes against the door with a satisfying burst. Eva turns to him, watching expectantly and he looks down, running a thumb over the old brown glass. When’s the last time he’s done anything to release frustration? He tosses the bottle lightly, feeling the weight. Damn, was today irritating. Eva was right, every little thing went wrong. The worried adrenalin hasn’t completely left him, knotting tight in sore muscles so when he looks up, sees Eva still watching him, a switch flips. 

He grins at her, actually grins, knowing it looks feral and not caring. She’s matching his expression, though on her it’s more mischievous and less terrifying, and so he turns and throws the bottle as hard as he can. Something releases as the glass shatters. 

Frustration, every moment of helplessness, being forced to hold back fury, the feeling of his body responding to someone else’s whims, it all boils up into something he’s never been able to let out. 

Eva throws him another bottle before he can even think to go looking for one. This time it’s whiskey, cheap enough that the bottle is huge and heavy in his hand. It nearly explodes when it hits the wall. 

Eva’s laughter mixes with the sound of falling glass and it’s beautiful, it’s release, freedom. It’s this new stage of his life, this strange partnership, it’s the closest thing he’s ever come to owning himself. 

They break countless bottles. Cheap vodka, vintage scotch, strange flavored liqueurs so strong that even long empty they release a scent when they shatter, filling the room up with sugary caramels, synthetic fruit, cream and chocolate. The floor goes from deep gray to a thousand colors, browns and greens, violet purples and neon blues so unnaturally bright they hurt to look at. 

And then finally every bottle is broken and they collapse together, panting on the only stretch of floor not covered with broken glass. Eva’s arm is caught up with his, clutching at him as she laughs and gasps for air and he doesn’t care. She’s grinning and he’s so incredibly free, for once just Charon, the contract forgotten and he’s tired and sore and thrilled. Eva presses into him and he presses back, not against his owner but his companion, his weird, confusing partner that sometimes he thinks he might like too much, who’s holding onto him like he matters. 

She’s too close again but this time she’s not just touching his arm and her face is flushed and his pulse is still racing and maybe he’s leaning in, maybe he’s just dizzy but she’s getting closer and he can count those freckles again and…then he can’t. Then Eva is scrambling to her feet, still smiling but something pulling tight in the corners of her eyes. She reaches out her hand and he lets her help him up but then she’s gone, moving over to their forgotten bags and stuffing the supplies he had pulled frantically out back in. She’s talking but he can’t really focus on what she’s saying, still reeling from the sudden emptiness her retreat left behind. 

“And I guess we should make our way over towards that molerat den instead, they shouldn’t really be out this early anyways and we took most of them out last week so it’s probably our best bet.” She pulls her pack on and waits for him to do the same, still smiling, even still breathing hard but it's clear the moment is over. She moves towards the door and as his heartbeat slows, Charon does the same. Without her proximity and the adrenaline, he feels awkward as well. It was thrilling but whatever was happening at the end was too much, too confusing to think about. He breaths out, pushing the still-sweet air from his lungs and the still-fresh memory from his mind. 

When he finally follows after her, the glass crunching beneath his feet is just glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The happiest chapter so far? I hope it felt appropriate for the pacing, I've been writing Charon disliking Eva for so long I think I'm as thrown off as he is by the change in their relationship! 
> 
> Also I noticed my story is on the second page of Fallout 3 when you sort it by kudos and might have choked up a little. Thank you all so much for sticking with me. I'm continuously amazed by all of your kind encouragement. :)


	17. Pulling away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva's starting to pull away.

Eva is withdrawing. 

Charon doesn’t understand why. 

At first her extreme proximity was a near constant but it seems as if the change in their dynamic has set off some unseen tipping point. When he hated her, mistrusted her, dreaded her touch she was almost always too close. The press of her arm against his, light touches on his shoulders and hands, communicating silently through touch, it became something he expected. Now it’s uncertain. She’s still close, still huddles tight against him when they’re hiding, squeezes his shoulder in greeting. Even her cold toes have returned at points, little bursts of ice tucked under his thigh when they share the couch, but now the gestures seem unpredictable.

One day she is constantly within reach, her hip pressed against his upper thigh as they stand together, drinking stale coffee in the kitchen while the early morning light blends their shadows into one inseparable shape. The next he will spend the day feeling the light wisps of heat left behind from aborted contact, catching her hand snapping away before it can get any closer, the sharp motions blurring in the corner of his eye. With his own changing reactions, the distaste and anxiety her nearness used to induce in him shifting into a confusing sort of longing, he’s feeling more than a little lost. 

Today has had some of the worst examples yet. He’s only been awake for an hour, stumbling out of his room to find her creeping back in from watching the sunrise, and yet he’s already caught her withdrawing from him three times. The last instance he even caught her expression, her reaching hand clenching into a fist at her side, a flicker of anger thinning her lips into a sharp line. It sparked something in him as well, an irrational anger that wanted to reach out and catch that withdrawing touch, pull it back to where it belongs. 

He knows her well enough by now that he doubts it’s a powerplay, that whatever satisfaction she got from touching him vanished once it was no longer unwanted, but it still frustrates him. Why would these two changes in their relationship happen so simultaneously? Why, the moment he actually wanted the contact, would she take it away? 

Now she’s drinking tea, something so sharp and herbal he can smell it from across the room, and huddling as far away from him as she can. Her sudden distance is bothering him to no end. He wants to put down his own weak cup of coffee and cross the room, press close like she does. 

Charon still remembers those fleeting moments of lust, when all the confusing emotions she stirred up in him combined with stress and bled over into a surprising and sudden need for physicality, but this feels different. He’s not injured or struggling to ignore her kindness, her consideration for him, contradicting so sharply with any other employer that he could have blindly adored her if not for his own learned hatred. Charon has accepted that she has better intentions towards him then he’s ever experienced. He’s seen it now, experienced it firsthand. He’s even grown to enjoy her company so why is this turmoil still boiling up? 

He watches her, catalogs the tight grip on her mug, the downcast eyes, the tension pulling her shoulders tight and high. 

Eva’s smile when she catches him looking is as weak as his coffee and it sets him over the edge. She almost looks frightened of him. He’s well aware that he’s disturbing, a towering decayed monster in the eyes of most, but normally Eva treats him like a source of comfort. Seeing the exact opposite in her eyes, it makes him realize just how much he has begun to enjoy being that comfort. 

When he sets down his coffee mug, it’s so roughly that it rattles on the countertop, pale brown liquid sloshing over onto the chipped tile. He crosses the room in four steps, catches her arms up in what must be a frighteningly sudden way even while he’s wanting so badly to do the opposite. 

“What’s wrong?” He doesn’t know how to have these conversations, hasn’t had an equal partnership that he can draw from. She’s looking up at him, eyes startled wide and so pale she looks terrified even though he knows it’s her natural skin tone. There are those freckles again, tormenting him, striking up that foreign longing that he’s still struggling not to label. Not yet. His grip loosens at the sight of them, thumbs rubbing those gentle circles that calmed her once. He hopes it will work again. 

“I…” Eva looks dumbstruck, mouth hanging open slightly from her loss of words. She doesn’t try to shrug his hands away and he’s glad for it, doesn’t want to let go just yet. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” Even as she says it, it’s clear they both know she’s lying. Her eyes trail to the left, down to his shoulder and part of him is relieved at the break. He doesn’t know confrontation, has only solved problems with bullets and biding his time. His hands drop down to her elbows, cupping instead of squeezing, attempting to negate some of the intimidation his stature and rotted skin lend him. He wants to talk to her, not scare her. 

“We both know that’s not true. You…you’ve stopped…” 

What does he say? You won’t touch me anymore? How can he ask this without seeming desperate, without it sounding like the obvious come-on he’s not certain it isn’t? What does he really want from her, more then to just no longer be confused? He doesn’t know. 

Charon drops one hand, hovering awkwardly at his side. There’s a fleeting instinct to drop his grip to her hip, some lost part of him can feel it, the soft curve and how well his grasp would catch at it, hold it. The horrific sensation, wondering if he’s done it before or can only imagine, the lost years digging into the back of his mind, the worst kind of mystery hits him hard enough that he almost misses her response. 

“Charon, I just don’t want to take advantage.” Eva catches his dropped hand, running her thumbs lightly over his pock marked knuckles. Her voice is low, eyes focused on his skin, head deliberately tipped down, hiding behind knotted morning curls. 

“I know I should have realized sooner but it didn’t completely occur to me.” 

She sighs and he feels the heat of her breath across his skin, calling back an evening campfire and the remembered twang of need in his gut. 

“I knew I had too much power over you but it wasn’t a command so I thought it didn’t really matter.” She shakes her head, the hitch in her words he wishes he imagined cutting deep. 

“But it doesn’t work like that. I should have known how hard saying no would be. I…” Her hand is gripping his tighter now, smooth skin catching on calluses like soft fabric on a rusted nail. 

“I know I’m lonely and having you around, it’s so great.” She finally looks at him and the smile on her face is heartbreaking, too bright for the waver in her voice. 

“I stopped existing a long time ago and having you here makes me feel like everything didn’t end at the water plant. Like there’s a future instead of just…more.” Eva squeezes his hand, tight enough that one of his fingers pops and it’s such a normal sound, it cuts the tension slightly. She snorts, massaging his hand lightly, like it might have hurt. 

“So yeah, I just don’t want to take advantage. This is already too good to be true.” 

It’s an answer and it makes sense but it’s not what he wants to hear. He spent the majority of their time together hating her and now, hearing her treasure his presence like that, it stings. Here is this lonely person, too young to be so alone, too well intentioned to be this full of self-hatred and she looks on a stranger who despised her as a gift. And now, finally, he’s ready to reciprocate her friendship and she’s withdrawing because she thinks she has asked for too much already. 

Eva drops his hand but he doesn’t let go of her elbow. Her feelings towards him are already too complex, too tangled. Adding his own unlabeled responses just makes it that much more confusing. Is he still touching her because of pity? A misplaced guilt for not understanding her initial intentions? 

He doesn’t regret hating her exactly. He knows he had every right to despise the person who purchased him, traded him for caps like a tool instead of a living being but he wants it to be over now, understands that it’s different. Charon is jaded but not blind enough to ignore good intentions when he finds them. So, is this all in a subconscious attempt to show her that that part of their relationship is over? 

Eva starts to move away and his grip tightens instantly, taken over with the instant wild panic that if she pulls away, it will be over. She’ll get used to the new boundaries she’s set and never touch him again, never stand so close. The thought of forgetting what it feels like is almost frightening. 

He’s struck with the maddening impulse to kiss her, to cut that last barrier. She can’t think it isn’t his choice if she doesn’t expect it, if, when she’s pulling away, he pulls her back. 

The hand at his side is suddenly on her hip, confirming his suspicions. It does fit perfectly in his palm, softer than the rest of her and his fingers curl, too much pressure, possibly bruisingly tight but he’s inexperienced, can’t remember doing any of this even if he can picture it. Eva smells warm and salty, a scent that he had no idea until now was already familiar. 

Impulsively he tugs her closer, presses her tight against him with the wavering memory of that horrible day, a bullet in his shoulder and arms too weak to follow the strange desire to catch her, touch her. He’d thought, drunk on adrenaline and pain, about fucking her and now just a kiss is too much, clouding his thoughts, making the world around them blur and shrink until it’s just the two of them. Charon tips forward, too tall, entirely prepared to scoop her up, cup her upper thighs and set her on the counter if she has to tilt her head too far to reach him, hesitance gone and suddenly so, so ready when he feels her struggle to pull away. 

He drops his hands immediately, stumbling away from her like she burned him. That was…he was…he was lost in that moment, so certain she would reciprocate, that she would be glad at the proof that she wasn’t abusing him. 

Eva’s face is bright pink, chest rising and falling rapidly as she backs out of the kitchen, away from him. Her voice is higher than usual, panicked. 

“I’m, Charon, that wasn’t a command. You didn’t have to do that.” She’s agitated, visibly shaking and backpedaling away. She hits the stairs and stumbles, clutching at the railing as she thumps down onto the first step but when Charon starts to follow she scrambles back to her feet. 

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t an order. I’m sorry.” She’s repeating her apology even as she twists and darts up the stairs. The door to her room slams behind her and Charon is left alone, stunned in the abrupt silence. 

Absently, he notices her cup has been knocked over, spilling tea and soggy herbs onto the counter. The pungent liquid drips onto the floor in steady ticking drops, the only sound save for the heartbeat hammering in his chest. 

It fills the room with its aroma, sharp, bitter, and disappointing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter then usual but hopefully still enjoyable! 
> 
> I know I say thank you every time but I really mean it. I'm pretty nervous posting each new chapter so knowing if you're still interested in what's happening is such a relief. Thank you for taking the time, I really appreciate it. :)


	18. Bad Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The after effects of the almost kiss.

Yesterday was a mistake. 

He shouldn’t have tried to kiss her. 

Eva is anxious now, tip toeing around the house, so quiet he’s lucky to even find her and dashing away whenever he does. He feels like a monster. He was so certain she’d respond, so caught up in his own spark of infatuation that he projected it onto her. Now she’s frightened, either of his aggression or her own perceived manipulation of him. 

She said she didn’t order him to kiss her, as if he wasn’t incredibly aware of the fact. 

An order left unfulfilled this long would be killing him, pure agony that would most likely push him into a blind violent fervor. This is something else entirely. It’s a lingering desire, bitter with longing but sweet in the very fact that it’s his own. It’s spinning around his head, leaving him dizzy even as he tries to find a way to right the situation. 

That moment, so incredibly brief, has rattled him. He can’t stop thinking about it, as if letting his mind go there, letting himself picture touching her has flipped a switch. Images keep flickering through his mind, the pale freckles scattered over her shoulders, soft skin over muscles knotted from a day’s trek, too white teeth biting a too pale lip. He can see them after a day together, dusty and sore, tangled up by the fire. There’s fingers knotted in dark brown hair, nails raking down his back, cracked desperate kisses pressing to her sweat salt skin. It’s new and delicious and entirely too easy to imagine. 

He’s attached to her, he’s at least realized that much and damn, friendship isn’t something he understands, isn’t something he knows how to handle. If he adds attraction to this already confusing mess, what chance does he have to sort any of it out? 

Not a chance in Hell. 

…

It’s two days of evading questions and dodging conversation before he manages to corner Eva. He catches her on the stairs when it’s too late for either of them to still be awake. She freezes when she sees him, a package of chips and a slightly overripe mutfruit clutched tight in her hands. It’s clearly a quick dinner, snuck back to her room so she won’t risk bumping into him and the fact drops into the pit of his stomach, heavy. He needs to address this, can’t spend time with his head lost in dirty fantasies while she’s still so unhappy. He waits at the top of the stairs, arms crossed.

Right now, he is Charon, guarding the gates to Hell, demanding payment. 

Eva’s face has gone bright red, flushing down to her chest and she stutters out something incoherent as she tries to scoot past him, back to the wall. It’s almost tempting to just drop it, hope that the feelings stirring inside him fade before they ever become something with a name but he’s upset her and he doesn’t like it, can’t have it. 

“Eva, wait.” He reaches for her hand and she nearly flinches, taking one quick step back down before he can make contact. Charon lets his hand drop. She waits on the second stair, watching him nervously. He sighs. 

What a disaster for an almost kiss. 

“I’m sorry I scared you.” Communication is a skill he’s had little practice in but he pushes for the right words. He steps back as he talks, letting her join him in the tight space between their rooms. 

“I won’t try to do that again.” It was a stupid, impulsive decision and if he could take it back, he would. Standing in this small hallway would be significantly easier if he didn’t know what she felt like pressed against him, couldn’t just barely pick up the scent of her skin. He’s feeling guilty and lecherous, something nightmarish looming over the heroine of an old-world flick and the little pang of need her proximity keeps igniting in him stands out in a dizzying juxtaposition. 

“You didn’t scare me!” Eva blurts out, dropping her food as she raises her hands in denial. The mutfruit bounces, thumps down the stairs and rolls towards the couch. Neither of them watch it go. 

“I didn’t, um,” She’s red again, staring at his collar bone instead of meeting his eyes. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It was just a little too easy to let you get that close.” She breathes out the confession and oh, how that affects him. He’s thrilled and confused at the same time but he takes a tentative step towards her. 

“Do you want me that close?” His voice is low, an implication crackling under his ghoulish vocal cords that he knows she must hear. 

All he can think is please.

Please, let her say yes. 

He’s not going to analyze this, can’t even fit the idea of this level of affection in his world view but when he looks at her, he sees Eva. A startled Eva who seems to have forgotten how to breath but Eva all the same. He sees hands that have checked him for bullets twisting and pulling the fabric of her shirt in that familiar gesture of nerves, scars he knows the stories behind, eyes that look at him like he matters to her. 

He sees a hint of sunburn and a bright purple bruise blooming across her knuckles. He sees fear and loneliness and a quiet hope she can make a difference in this irradiated, burned out shell of a world. Standing in front of him is a ghost of a woman, pale and alarming, long dead in her own expectations of herself but still standing, fighting her way back to the living. 

Right now, he can’t love her, can’t put the thought into words. It’s been too many lifetimes of slavery, pulling out of his own mind until the rage is empty and cold and the blood on his hands didn’t matter. He can’t make his way back enough for that. 

He can’t love her but for a moment, staring down at this complex, lost, horribly honest creature, for a moment he can adore her. 

Eva didn’t back away when he came closer, she held her ground almost stiffly, and now she’s forced to crane her head up to look at him. 

“Do I want…” Her voice is breathless, barely a whisper. 

“Yes. No! Fuck.” She throws her head back in frustration, tugging at her hair helplessly. 

“I don’t know! Can I say that? I don’t know how this works.” Her eyes are starting to shine, brimming with tears that seem to be more of frustration then sadness. She takes one step back, thumbing against the wall and groaning, miserable. 

“Charon, I don’t know how to answer that.” She looks helplessly up at him. 

He can’t think of what to say, can’t find the words so he does the only thing that comes to mind. 

He kisses her. 

There’s no answer to reassure her, no special response that can erase his contract, no words to overwrite the faded ink that traps him, but there’s this. Maybe he can show her that he wants this, needs this desperately. 

He has to stoop to reach her, propping his arm on the wall for support as he leans down and catches her lips in a carefully chaste kiss. His other hand finds its way to her cheek and it’s difficult to ignore the variance in texture. She’s so soft it hurts. 

There is a beat of aching suspense and then she responds, tipping her head up higher and pressing back. They’re barely touching, just his hand on her cheek and the burning heat of her lips and then she makes this sound in the back of her throat, this soft high glorious noise that tips everything over. 

Suddenly he needs be touching all of her, arms wrapping around her back as he deepens the kiss, crushing what’s left of his lips to hers desperately as he presses her into the wall. He swipes his tongue over a velvet soft lip, fresh and whole and not chipped away like his and the taste of her is maddening. She tastes like she smells, wet skin and this impossibly addictive something that must just be her, and he wants more of it, glides a greedy tongue over her hesitant one, bites the tender flesh of her lower lip. Eva returns the favor, softer at first and then hard enough that it nearly hurts. He groans into her mouth, refusing to break away even as he scoops her up to kiss her more thoroughly. 

She’s in her sleepwear and it’s just loose enough that he can push the fabric up, stroke up the backs of her upper thighs as he pulls her higher. She’s too short right now and that means too far away. He needs her closer. 

Eva catches on, wrapping her legs around his waist as she wraps her arms around his neck, holding tight even though he has her pressed to the wall, finally level with him, close enough to crush his body to hers. He breaks away just long enough to press eager, biting kisses to her shoulder, her neck. She gasps and he’s never wanted something more than a repeat of that beautiful sound. 

He doesn’t know if he’s done this before, can’t remember anything even remotely similar, so he doubts he’s particularly skilled at it. There’s an urgency, a desperation that’s crushing her lips against his and making him suck and nip where he meant to leave lighter kisses. He needs this, wants to be even closer, wants to kick down one of these fucking doors and find the closest bed, a soft place where he can explore every inch of this burning form crushed against his own. 

He breaks another kiss to bite her earlobe, worrying the soft flesh between his teeth and then dipping back down to a neck already peppered with faint bruises, her skin reddening wherever he sucks. Deep down he knows this is wrong, that Eva isn’t just Eva, she’s the woman who owns his contract, the one who bought him and this will never be okay but right now she’s in his arms and pressing sharp kisses to his shoulder and all he can think of is her. 

Then she kisses him again, hard and passionate, and he can’t think at all. 

…

When Eva finally pulls away, all swollen lips and flushed cheeks, she looks startled, as if she can’t quite believe what just happened.

“That was…” She can’t get the words out so Charon leans in, nuzzling the soft crook between her neck and her shoulder, drunkenly wondering if another kiss would help her find the phrase she’s looking for. 

“Thanks.” She laughs a little breathlessly and he takes the chance to run a hand over her thigh, up her hip. It’s hard to focus. 

She’s very distracting.

Eva shivers at the light touch, arching up as he continues the stroke up her spine, down her waist, over her soft stomach and up. This might be the only time he can do this. She’s looking at him like she knows it won’t work as well. The scrap of paper between them, forgotten words that have faded from everything but his mind, is already reasserting itself. By the time she speaks, he already knows what’s coming. 

“I really shouldn’t have done that, huh?” She pulls away and he misses the heat of her, didn’t realize how cold it was before he pulled her close. 

“I’m sorry if my answer in some way pushed you to do ... any of that.” She stumbles at the end and he’s pleased despite himself. She sounds like she’s been ravished, still a little breathless and dazed. It feels good to affect her like that even if she’s already regretting giving in.

“Don’t ever touch me if you don’t want to.” Eva glances back towards him, quick, like she can barely look him in the eye. It was a deliberate order and she looks ashamed. Eva doesn’t do it often, these past few months it’s been less and less frequent, so the all too familiar prickle of a command taking hold hits harder than usual.

“Eva, I’ll tell you if you go past a boundary, okay? Don’t go quiet on me.” Charon leans towards her, wanting to stroke her arm but settling for placing a hand on her shoulder. The moment is beginning to fade for him as well, all the consequences and land minds of a relationship with Eva crowding over the idealistic images of the two of them together. If he can’t have this, then he at least wants her back to normal. 

She nods at his words, staring down the stairs at the mutfruit on the floor. Already deformed, the thick skin now looks battered from its rough journey. Some of the juice has begun to ooze onto the ground, staining the floor a dark purple. 

“You don’t know how bad I want to, Charon. I promise.” She’s still watching the fruit bleed out and the raw need in her voice is a sharp contrast to the carefully steeled expression on her face. 

“But you and I both know it’s a bad idea.” 

Yes, he does. He knows it all too well. 

He knows Eva’s right but when he sees her the next morning, acting like he hadn’t just had her in his arms, like the kiss had never happened, it doesn’t stop him from wanting it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It happened! It's chapter 18 and I'm still worried I'm rushing the romance. I hope the wait was worth it. It's just a beginning (and a rocky one at that) but we've taken the first baby step from slow to burn. 
> 
> Also, again, I am overwhelmed by the support you guys have given me. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. Writing this story has been such an incredible experience and it's all because of you. Thank you for being interested and I hope you enjoy the rest of the ride!
> 
> 4/24 I'm seriously thinking about deleting and rewriting this one...


	19. Birthdays and an Excuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva and Charon try to ignore what happened.

“Charon?” 

They’re on the couch together, cold toes tucked beneath his thigh, almost back to normal. Eva’s fiddling with her pip-boy, looking through routes she’s charted and adjusting them according to what she found when she got there. She’s been at it for hours.

He’s sorting bullets again, shifting through the box they keep by the door for any unidentified excess from their scavenging. Most of them are useless, the type they have no guns for, and will be sold the next time they go down to the market but there’s a substantial pile of shot gun shells and energy cells so he’s satisfied. More than anything, it’s something to do with his hands, something to look at instead of the hickey that still hasn’t faded from Eva’s neck. 

He remembers making it, the extra bite startled out of him by blunt nails raking down his back. 

She doesn’t seem to mind it, has done nothing to cover it so he’s trying to do the same. Now he’s sorting through a box that’s gone untouched for months, focusing on tarnished metal and trying not to picture giving her a matching set. 

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up, just dumps another handful of bullets in the ‘keep’ pile. 

“Do you have a birthday?” 

That’s a new one. He can’t help looking up at her for that, raising a barely existent brow to show his feelings for the question. 

“No, I just materialized one day. Sugar and spice and radiation, you know the story.” 

Eva snorts, kicking his leg playfully. 

“So, I crawled out from under a rock and you’re what? Magic?” She’s leaning towards him, still pale enough to support her claim and grinning.

“No. I’m a dream come true.” He deadpans but Eva still laughs, shifting from her place in the corner of the couch to sit closer, hands on her knees and entirely too focused.

“Okay, but really. Do you have one?” She’s close and he’s uncomfortable, wondering when her proximity will stop affecting him. First, he doesn’t want her near him, now he wants her even closer. He shrugs it off, pushing the box away along with the unwanted desire.

“Not one I can remember. Do you?” They’ve been together for maybe thirteen months, long enough that she undoubtedly had one but it’s the first he’s hearing of it. 

“Yeah, about seven months ago.” She shrugs, waving it away with a flippant hand and turns so she can lean her back against his side. Her face is hidden when she speaks but she sounds wistful. 

“So, do you want to make one up? We could have a party.” Eva waves a hand in the air, gesturing at some imaginary streamers. 

“Mister Handy could decorate and I could get us some of the weird nukas and we could eat snack cakes.” She twists back to grin at him. “Make it special?” 

Charon chuckles dryly, “You ate snack cakes this morning.”

She shrugs, “Yeah but they’d probably taste better with a candle. That’s the rule, right?”

This is getting ridiculous. It’s pointless and silly and so caring it hurts. She doesn’t want him but still she insists on making it harder and harder to stop himself from moving, just a little, just enough to wrap his arm around her and pull her close. He could kiss her for every thoughtful thing she’s done for him, every kindness no one ever thought to point his way. Eva’s so close already, was so eager the last time, matching the frenzied passion in every kiss. Just the thought of it makes him ache. It was clear what she wanted and he was so, so ready to give it to her.

She does want him, she even said as much, but she won’t let herself give in. He had her legs wrapped around him and her taste on his tongue less than a week ago but she still said no in the end. So as badly as he wants to pull her close, explore slowly what he’d so desperately devoured before, he just steels himself and responds. 

“No, I don’t want a birthday. Sounds like too much work for someone without an expiration date.”

Picking some arbitrary date would be pointless and if they do make it a tradition, it will just turn into an unpleasant reminder of happier times once Eva dies. He knows Eva was a stroke of luck as surely as he knows the next employer will be nothing like her. 

Waiting patiently for his next thoughtless order will be a thousand times worse if he can look at the date and remember what it used to be like, how much better off he used to be. 

There would be nothing quite so disheartening, so pathetic as thinking to himself “Today’s my birthday,” as he feels his body responding to someone else’s will. 

Eva’s sighs at his response but doesn’t push. She could easily see the real reason he wouldn’t want a set date and it’s a sobering thought, imagining the unnamed stranger that will inevitably take her place. Instead he turns slightly towards her, feels her leaning weight shift from his arm to his chest. She stiffens slightly and he’s relived at her response, glad it’s not just him effected by the sudden intimacy of the position. He clears his throat, tries not to sound like he’s losing control. 

“Do you want a birthday?” He traces a feather light touch over her shoulder, knowing he’s skirting the lines of what they can and can’t do and having trouble caring. “Did you do anything for it?” Eva’s settled into the position, though she shivers as he strokes her. “Do you wish you had?”

When she answers, she’s just a little breathless and if that doesn’t wreck him, nearly tearing his last scrap of control to shreds. If he could just replace those fingers with his tongue, lick the skin he’s barely touched, ignite the fire he’d just gotten a taste of before, maybe her control would start slipping too. 

“I…um…” His hand has dipped from her shoulder to stroke her arm, tracing the harsh lines of her scars like braille. “No, I didn’t do anything. You really didn’t like me at that point and there’s not much to do alone.” She sounds sad but reassurance would come across as something entirely different right now. He does it anyway. 

“I like you now.” The undercurrent in his voice is obvious, that extra depth from restrained lust that twists his already harsh voice into something nearly physical. His hand is at her elbow, gently stroking a particularly rough scar, and he lets it fall those last few inches to her hip, her thigh. 

Eva’s head falls back to his chest, going limp as he starts to massage her upper thigh, kneading tight muscles as an excuse to touch her. Even through the fabric of her pants, he can feel the heat of her skin, knows what is most likely the hottest point. She moans when he lets his hand explore her further, slowly working his way to the soft flesh of her inner thigh. At this point he’s aching, all need for restraint forgotten, just lost in the extra give of her skin, how delicate it feels, vulnerable and she trusts him enough to get this close, surely…

His hand moves on its own, working and kneading towards what he’s certain she wants him to touch, the lust boiling in his gut shifting to something that’s almost hunger. 

Eva gasps as his touch advances, for a moment as lost as he is, body going stiff in anticipation. The pads of his fingers just graze the subtle raise of her (and oh if he thought her thigh was soft) when she jerks away, twisting and scooting back until she’s tucked firmly in the corner of the couch, the furthest spot from him. 

Now that he can see her face, it’s clear how much he’d been affecting her. She’s flushed, blotchy red blooming across her cheeks and chest and nearly panting. If she hadn’t also looked upset, he’d have followed her, pressed her into the couch and discovered just how and what she likes his hands to be doing. 

But she’s not happy, not overwhelmed with need, just flustered and looking the guiltiest he’s ever seen her. 

“Charon, I didn’t…You didn’t, that wasn’t…” She’s stuttering and he leans forward, the need to address her obvious arousal nearly primal in nature. Even through the guilt he can see it, her dilated pupils and the flush along her chest make it clear as day. 

“No, you didn’t.” She made no orders, he’s not compelled by anything but a rapidly growing urgency for her pushing him forward. 

“But you can.” 

He must look like he wants to eat her, feels like it. He’s practically growling.

She’s shaking her head but already leaning towards him. 

“I don’t want to do anything you don’t want me to do.” Eva’s words come out rushed, shaky on an unsteady exhale. 

Charon nods. This is a rule that she won’t let herself break. He knows how immoral her touching him would make her feel, knows she’s correct when she says it’s sick but he’s going mad. It’s clear that this is his own desire, if he could just show her, convince her…

“Think of it as your birthday present.” 

“What?” For a moment, she’s startled out of her guilt, pulling back slightly and watching him like it’s a trick question. Charon takes the opportunity to get closer, standing and stepping near so he can kneel by her side of the couch. 

“It’s just a gift. Birthdays, remember?” His smile is conspiratorial. There’s no way she doesn’t know it’s an excuse but maybe it’s enough of one to let her indulge, give in to this sudden heat that’s built up between the two of them. When she finally nods, pupils so blown out her eyes are almost black, it’s a struggle not to pounce. 

By present he could have meant anything, touching her, eating her out, fucking her until she can barely move but she’s only just handling his hands on her and he’s not certain how well he’d hold out either. Just stroking her thigh leaves him hard and aching, he isn’t sure how much more he can take. 

Slowly, he leans in and presses a light kiss to her jawline. It’s gentle enough to be nearly innocent until he nuzzles into her neck, nipping at the skin just behind her ear and earning a shudder that says more about the mood of the moment then anything he’s done so far. 

Eva’s hands have made their way to his shoulders and he can feel her nails dig in as he finds his way to her pulse point. The vein is painfully visible under her sickly skin, so dark he feels as if he would puncture it if he bit just a little too hard, but he can feel her heart racing under his lips so it’s worth the extra restraint. The thrumming pulse races when he flicks his tongue out, tastes the flavor he’s been craving since that night on the stairs. Charon wants more, wants to lave at her skin and suck until it’s marked. 

Another bit of proof of this new something between them. 

When he breaks away, the sheen of his saliva on her flesh hits hard enough to make his head spin. He’s dipping in for another taste when Eva catches his jaw, tilting his head up until they’re eye to eye. 

“Do you…?” An unspoken question. Another chance to stop what’s happening. 

“Yes. Fuck yes.” He gasps it, too eager, too excited but the force of her kiss shows he’s not alone in his urgency. 

He melts into her, still kneeling on the hard wood floor but too blissful to care. Her kiss is tongue and teeth and nearly violent. There’s too much desire behind it, too much to get out with one excuse, one moment of weakness. Charon understands. Every fantasy since that night is rushing to the surface, impulses demanding to be followed. His hands are fisted in her hair, tight, crushing her closer and then they’re on her hips, her waist, dipping perilously close to spots he’s certain are too much, too far, trying to fulfill every want at once. 

When she breaks the kiss, he’s torn in ten different directions, the urges to taste every part of her battling for supremacy. The confliction only vanishes when Eva follows her own impulse, pressing quick soft kisses to his jaw, his neck, dropping to his collar bone and then catching his hand to press her lips to the inside of his wrist. Charon shivers, gives up any last restraint and climbs over her, needing more contact, more of her against him. Eva twists with him, sliding down to lay flat on the couch and he follows, grinding against her with nothing but the basest impulse, desperate to appease some of the throbbing need driving him out of his mind. 

This loss of control is terrifying. Nothing in his life has held him so captive with desire. No decision of his own has had this much sway over him, driven him to want something so badly he’s losing himself. Nothing but Eva, dark hair curled up and around her, staring up at him, her face a mirror of his own need. 

“Isn’t this a bit much for a birthday?” She’s panting and grinning, spacing out the question between kisses. She arches into him, pressing breasts he still hasn’t touched against his chest and he responds by thrusting roughly against her, hating the thin barriers stopping him from just pushing into her, being in her, with her. 

“Interest.” Charon growls it, teeth bared because he’s suffering, the pain of his erection straining against too constrictive fabric only matched by how damn good it feels to finally get this close to her again. 

Eva laughs, breathless and overwhelmed but genuine. 

It’s a short-term solution. An excuse she’ll only be able to cling to for so long before it falls apart but for now, it’s enough. Eva moans into his mouth and it’s enough, it has to be enough. Eventually something needs to quench this thirst, ease the longing because he can’t keep this up, can’t not have her when he wants her so badly. Not when she wants him too. 

He tries to memorize every inch of her, every sensation before it ends. Her scent and her skin and please let this just be lust because he doesn’t think he can handle it if it’s something more.  
But it ends. 

Eva breaks away. The excuse is ruined, broken a thousand times over between them. Charon watches her leave on weak legs, wanting nothing more than to pull her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this got long! And here I was thinking about deleting the last two chapters. I'm just digging my grave deeper with this guy so I guess I'll see where to go from here.
> 
> Here's hoping you like it! It is so late and I am so tired so there could be typos.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos on the last chapter. I was this close to giving up on the story. Thanks Kim for the extra push! :)


	20. Just another quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva and Charon are setting out to help Moira with her latest chapter.

The old RobCo building is in surprisingly good shape. The walls are mostly intact and when Eva shoulders the front door open, gun in hand, it swings open almost silently. Charon readies his own gun and follows her as she creeps inside, a little closer than necessary. Ever since their relationship shifted from uncertain to friendly, his contract driven need to protect her has become laced through with his own impulses. 

It feels strange, having the same intention coming from two different sources, like being pulled in a direction he’s already heading. 

The entryway is empty, scattered with ancient debris and a few bones. Charon gives them a glance over but they’re small and incredibly old, nearly crumbling under their own weight. If whatever creature these bones belonged to died from unnatural causes, the predator should be long gone and, judging from the apparent age, possibly even long dead. 

They’re nothing to be concerned with and he kicks a larger one out of his way as he moves further into the building, trying to ignore the thick coating of dust that permeates the air. It’s not just the usual scent of crumbling cement and rotted wood, it’s the organic stench of old death, dry and savory. 

“Hey, Charon.” Eva’s knelt by an old burnt out computer, voice hushed. The light of her pip boy is turned low but it’s still casting her in an eerie green, nearly rotting her in the ashy light filtering through the buildings few windows. 

“Do you have any idea what a mainframe looks like?” They’re here on another reckless quest from Moira, searching for somewhere to download information about the long defunct robots rusting throughout the building. It’s obnoxious but at least it doesn't seem particularly dangerous. It's clear this building has been abandoned for decades. 

He shrugs, “Bigger than that at least,” and gestures towards a set of double doors. 

“I doubt they’d keep the main computer in the lobby. Come on.” She cracks a smile in response, pocketing a few bottlecaps scattered across the desk as she raises to follow him. 

Charon doesn’t bother edging the door open, just pushes it with his foot and catches it with his shoulder as Eva walks through. She looks excited, on edge but curious, and he’s hit with a little burst of affection. She's been listless and sad the last few days, an echo of that first day he’d found her curled tight on the floor of her room, and it feels good to see her this way instead. 

The room they’ve entered is significantly more high tech. Three large pods line the walls, still housing deactivated protectrons. He’s surprised they’re still here. Even if they can’t be reactivated, they could at least provide a good amount of valuable scrap. Just their power source alone would be a decent find. He walks over and taps the pod with the butt of his gun. Solid. Probably not worth the effort in the end. 

Eva’s already looked the room over and heading for another set of doors. After a final glance around, he follows. She hasn’t helped Moira out in months and it’s clear she’s eager to continue. He’d originally blamed Eva’s odd attachment to Moira as a weakness for physical affection but, while he hasn’t discounted it as a factor, he’s starting to worry it has to do with her drive to do something else important. The fact that the tasks are usually exceedingly dangerous never seem to faze her and, as he watches her stride  
blindly into the next room, the thought tugs at his chest. 

She might not value her life but he does. 

Eva’s voice drifts over from the next room, too loud to be at all cautious. “I think this is it!” 

She’s standing by a long range of computers, big enough to fill the entire opposite wall and typing code into a glowing green screen. He surveys the room as he approaches her, eyeing dark corners and turned over desks but everything seems safe. Just as he reaches her, the computer lets out several sharp pings and the lights in the room crackle to life. 

“Hey! Looks like it worked!” Eva’s sliding a disk into her front pocket when another burst of noise sets off in the next room. The sound of pistons firing, puffs of air as vacuum seals depressurize, and then the familiar heavy stride of metal feet thumping across old tile. 

They both turn just as the first protectron starts to fire. 

Three red burst of light strike the cement wall behind them, exploding into tiny sparks that sizzle when they hit the floor. Protectrons are powerful but not accurate and briefly Charon thanks whatever hubris led the prewar scientists to rely on brute force instead of programming in a better targeting system. 

The robot stomps steadily forward, firing off another three shots. Eva dives for the closest overturned desk and Charon follows suit, hissing as one of the lasers skids past his left arm, burning off an inch of skin and immediately cauterizing the wound. It hurts but without any blood loss, it’s barely a priority. 

Eva’s already starting to shoot back, leaning out just enough to aim before jerking back. 

“What woke them up?” Her voice is incredulous and she has to shout to be heard over the heavy tread of the bots. It’s clear the others are making their way through the door, slowly but steadily approaching the intruders. 

“Back up?” Charon yells back, aiming his shotgun for the closest protectron. The shot rips off one of its arms and it jolts, sparks bursting out from the exposed wires. It shudders for a moment, twitching as it’s processors tries to make sense of the sudden lack of input from its right limb but eventually it starts up again, stumbling and jerky but still coming. Charon curses, reloading his gun, and aims again. 

Another shot knocks it to the ground, cracking the hull. It jerks violently, struggling to raise. One last pull of the trigger and the core bursts, a thick rain of sparks spraying out of its chest cavity as acrid smoke starts to fill the room.  
Eva begins to cough, drawing a sleeve over her mouth, using the edge of the desk to steady her gun as she aims for the second protectron, now already half way across the room and followed close behind by a third. 

“We need to get out of here!” Already her voice is rough from the smoke and Charon can see her eyes have begun to water. Soon Eva’s gun will be useless, her eyesight too blurry to make any accurate shots. Charon nods, not bothering to speak. His throat is starting to burn as well, the room has gone hazy and gray from the still sparking protectron, and the air has begun to taste oily and sharp. 

He’s a ghoul, a little better apt to handle hostile environments but nothing can handle severe smoke inhalation for long. They take down another bot and, in this unventilated room, it won’t be long before neither of them can breathe. 

Eva’s tugging her pack off, tucking away her gun and clutching the large bag in front of her as a make shift shield. It’s thick leather, full of metal scrap and back up supplies. It might hold back some of the force of the bullets but it’s still just a pack. Charon tries to catch her, coughing as he lunges but she’s already on her feet, dashing forward and slamming its full weight into the closest bot. 

She catches it during a step, taking advantage of the protectron’s already weak balance, and it tips, hitting the ground with enough force to make its voice box crackle its prerecorded warning into nothing but static. 

The third attacker is too close to shoot, any bullets could just as easily take out Eva as it could the bot, so Charon just chases after her. His heart is pounding, fear for Eva making his head ache and pulse race and for once he can’t separate the contract from his own feelings. The robots are slow but they attack quickly, he can already see several rips in Eva’s clothes, the edges burned and blackened around red scorched flesh. 

She’s nearly through the door, pack readied for another hit. 

The protectron is close enough to her now that it stops shooting, instead swinging its heavy arms at her head, her torso. She manages to duck the first one but the second attack hits her square in the gut, tossing her down like she weighs nothing. 

She hits the floor hard, skids several feet, and lays still. 

Charon is certain his heart stops. She’s not moving in the slightest and the robot is stumbling steadily closer, still attempting to crush her instead of bothering to reboot its guns. 

Something in him snaps, goes black. The contract is panicking, overriding everything. There is nothing but his employer, limp and in extreme danger. This has happened to him before, the blinding rage that takes over in the most extreme situations but never has it been accompanied with his own panic. Normally a part of him fights it, wants to keep enough control to think, to use some semblance of caution but not now. Now it’s Eva stretched out, looking so much smaller on the dirty floor, and not moving. 

He dives for her, tugging her out of the bots reach just as it’s arm slams to the ground, cracking the ancient tile on impact. She doesn’t respond, is completely limp in his arms and, even though she’s shorter then him, an unconscious body is difficult to maneuver. 

Please let her just be unconscious. 

Still panicking, Charon flings her over his shoulder. She’s whiplashing between employer and Eva, protectiveness both forced and natural boiling up until he can’t tell if it’s the smoke or terror closing up his throat. The robot is trying to turn after him, lifting its arm to fire but he’s through the door and sprinting across the room before it finishes the motion. They’re still so close to the exit, barely even inside the building. They can still make it. 

Somewhere behind him, a turret whirs to life, spattering the ground behind him with a shower of bullets. One hits his ankle and sends him sprawling. Another catches his side as he goes down. He tries to twist, pull Eva against him so he’ll take the majority of the impact but when he hits the ground, she tumbles out of his arms. 

Somewhere in the building, a deep booming voice warns against intruders. 

It’s too deep to be a protectron, not enough lilt to be a Mister Handy. 

Something in Charon runs cold. 

He’s fought sentries before but not like this, not alone and wounded, with a still unconscious employer to protect. 

Scrambling to his feet, he takes one step on his ankle and nearly goes back down. The pain is blinding, burning heat from a bullet that is definitely lodged in bone. He almost crumples when he’s forced to stoop to grab Eva, winces when he finally sees her face. She must have hit something when he dropped her because now half her forehead is nothing but red. Dark blood streams down her cheek, clings to her lashes and drips down in a hideous simulation of tears. 

It’s just a head wound, he tells himself. Head wounds bleed.

He’s still terrified. 

They’re finally back in the lobby and he wants to run, wants to sprint but is forced to limp, clutching what might just be a body and horribly aware of how close the voice is getting. He can hear the crunch of its wheels, twenty-one tons of metal and weaponry destroying the broken floor beneath it, the machinery gasping, grinding with the effort to move after so many years of sitting in wait. Lifetimes of slavery has brought him close to death more then he can count but he’s never had the tipping point be so clear. If this thing sees them, turns the corner and spots the intruders it’s searching for, he’s dead. 

They’re dead. 

Pain is shooting up his leg, starting to both burn and go numb, and he stumbles, rolls his ankle, nearly drops Eva. She doesn’t move, makes no effort to help him or catch herself. He can’t even tell if she’s breathing. 

The voice is close enough now to make out words. It warns against trespassing, rumbles out a threat of encroaching on private property, growls about hostiles. Its metal limbs are clanking, creaking. So big and so old. So impossibly deadly against two wounded people. 

Charon hits the door, forgets that it doesn't swing out, and briefly fears that the robots activating triggered a lockdown. Eva slumps forward, head resting against the door, smearing a long streak of blood down the tarnished metal, and he almost gives up, almost lets his legs give out beneath him. He almost accepts that it’s over. 

Eva’s dead, he’s been burned and shot and it’s time to give in. 

Yet something pushes him forward. Maybe it’s the contract, throbbing in the back of his skull, or maybe it’s whatever angry, stubborn side of him has kept him alive this long. He growls, deep in the back of his throat, pushes through the pain. The voice behind him is close, so incredibly close, but it’s still not as close as the door. 

Charon shifts his weight, clutching Eva to his side and grabs the handle, tugging it open with every last remnant of strength he has. Outside, the sun is shining, a horrible reminder that they’ve been inside this building for less than an hour. Lunging forward, he just manages to slam the door shut before he falls. 

Through the door, he can hear the sentry bot searching, rolling close, closer and then away, it’s robotic voice fading as it turns deeper into the building. 

The cement beneath him is warm, heat from the sun bleeding into a body he knows is too cold. He should move, take them somewhere safe but he can’t. He’s too tired. 

Instead, he shifts to his side, curling around Eva and pulling her close to his chest. 

It’s quiet outside. There’s a soft breeze and the faint ringing of intense silence. Somewhere, a crow calls. 

Charon closes his eyes and squeezes the limp body in his arms as tightly as he can. 

He loses consciousness, stretched out on the RobCo steps, hoping against hope that he’s holding Eva and not just Eva’s body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. 
> 
> Just kidding! I'm so certain you guys are going to hate me for this one which is terrible of me because you've been so amazing! Thanks for all the pep talks. :) Guess it's pretty obvious how lost I was feeling but I feel so reassured now. Thank you! 
> 
> I had a lot of trouble finding the layout of the RobCo building and the exact enemies inside so I'm sorry if it's incredibly inaccurate. I also couldn't find how much a sentry bot weighs so I went with twenty one tons. It seems like a lot but apparently that's six tons less then an armored truck. Since it's essentially a robotic tank, I figured it might be a good guess.


	21. Lo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon wakes up.

Charon isn’t at the Robco building anymore. That’s the first thing he notices when he comes to. The large cement structure is nowhere in sight. Now he seems to be situated in a makeshift campsite, still out in the wasteland but far away from any buildings, just surrounded by long empty stretches of dead earth. 

He tries to sit up and gasps, immediately clutching at his side. Underneath his shirt, he can feel hastily wrapped bandages but it’s clear the wound is still open, still fresh enough to be wet against his fingertips. Around him, the sky has gone a dark blue, late evening showing that at least six hours have passed but he hasn’t been given a stimpak. That must mean that either Eva’s wounds were significantly worse or the bullet is still lodged in his ankle. His chest tightens painfully at the image of Eva, so still and so bloodied but he pushes the thought away. Who else would have moved him, bandaged him? Eva couldn’t have managed it if she was that hurt.

Besides, judging by the stiff burning in his leg, he’s going to guess it’s the later. 

“Eva?” He tries to look around but from his position, stretched out on the hard ground, it’s difficult to see much of anything. Just moving is painful and the amount of time he’s spent unconscious has left his muscles tight and sore.   
Finally, he hears footsteps approaching behind him. He tries to turn to see her, wants reassurance that she’s okay but it’s too far to twist. Instead he’s forced to wait as she approaches, listening to the crinkle of fabric as she crouches down beside him and gasping as a needle suddenly pierces his neck. 

It’s not a stimpak, he can’t feel his tissue knitting back together, but the pain starts to fade immediately. The person behind him chuckles, low and husky but with too much warmth to match the force behind the next shot. He tenses in anticipation of the pain behind such a roughly injected needle but feels almost nothing. It’s Med-X. There’s no way it could be anything else. 

“Hi, Charon.” A hand, callused and large brushes lightly over the injection site. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

They pat him, two brisk taps like he’s a wounded pet, and stand, casting a faint shadow over him in the evening light. 

“Ahzrukhal was a god damned idiot to let you go.” The figure circles around, crouching down and grinning at the shocked expression he doesn’t quite manage to hide in time. The person in front of him is large, heavy set and muscular in a way most wastelanders can’t afford to be. Whoever she is, it’s clear she’s either strong enough or clever enough to rarely go without.

“I heard it sold you for two thousand caps. Is that right?” She laughs, running her hand through the half of her hair that isn’t shaved. “Wonder if that old bastard’s having fun counting those caps in Hell?” 

When he doesn’t answer, the smile on her face flickers, twisting down for just a moment before setting back into place. She stands, a hulking presence at at least six feet, and gives his shoulder a halfhearted kick. It’s not rough, can’t quite constitute violence but it jolts his side hard enough that Charon can’t hold back a grunt of pain. The smile on her face changes back to sincere. 

“See if you’d asked me, I don’t think I could have put a price on you.” She scratches her chin, staring out at nothing in mock consideration. 

“A undying slave that literally can’t rebel.” She crouches back down, leaning in until she’s close enough to count the faint rows of notched scars lining both of her brows, symmetrical enough that they’re clearly cosmetic. Charon can smell her sweat, the bittersweet mixture of cola and jet on her breath. He tries to recoil and flinches, too tight bandages digging into his open wound. Her smile widens. 

“If you’d asked me, I probably would have paid anything.” She winks, tapping the side of her nose playfully. Slowly, almost theatrically, she draws a familiar scrap of paper from her breast pocket. She brandishes it with a flourish, pressing the edge of it to Charon’s forehead as the contract forces him to acknowledge his new master. 

“Then again, you can’t exactly beat free.” 

…

It’s obvious what she wanted. Charon has known his fair share of sadists before and, after a while, they become easy to predict. She wanted a response, wanted to see the fear or anger or misery in his eyes. A year ago, she would have been disappointed. He’d spent so long working for monsters that he’d learned to steel himself, force away any emotions, give no outer response but Eva has ruined him. 

He crumpled when he saw the contract, gave in to a sense of loss and hopelessness he hadn’t even realized he could still feel. All those years, all the time spent hardening himself to his situation was wiped away in an instant. A lifetime of freedom cut down to thirteen months. He broke all over again. 

Thirteen months. Just long enough to remember what a real life felt like. 

He lay there for hours, letting the pain well up and then drain away until he was empty. The woman didn’t bother with him, walked away satisfied after she saw him break. Others came to join her, seven in total, all clearly deferring to her. They set up camp, raised tents and roasted meat. Distantly he could hear them, caught his name several times, listened to his new employer brag but the voices were faded, blurring in and out as he pushed back into his old shell. 

He can’t think about what this must mean about Eva, can’t combine the loss of his autonomy with losing her, can’t handle it. He knows he needs to push everything away, instinctively tries to dull himself to the outside world but the last image he has of her, small and broken, it’s too raw to let him hide. He can still feel her in his arms, cold and still, and it pulls everything to the surface. So he won’t. 

He knows it will be years until he can acknowledge her death, years until losing Eva doesn’t rip him open and lay everything bare. It’s unfair to her, feels wrong to leave her behind to rot on the RobCo steps, forgotten even in his thoughts, but his new owner is clearing her throat, grinning at him like she has the best joke in mind and he needs to be empty, gone. If Eva is dead then he needs to die too. Thirteen months of living and now he’s back in his own grave. 

“Normally, I don’t waste good drugs on cargo but you’re something special. I’m keeping you for myself.” She’s stoked the fire until it’s blazing and now she returns to him, tossing a small pack at his feet. 

“Get that bullet out and I’ll give you a stimpak.” She gestures at his ankle. “It’s not in deep. You’re lucky I noticed before I gave you one. Otherwise we’d just half to cut you back open.” She’s behind him now but he can still hear the pleasure in her voice. “From what I hear, you’re sturdy and I want you staying that way.” 

Someone behind him laughs. 

Inside the pack, Charon finds an incomplete med kit. The stimpaks are missing but he finds what he knows he’s supposed to be looking for, a pair of tweezers, still a perfect sterile silver. 

The order is already pushing him, upset that he hasn’t complied quicker. With the med-x, it isn’t too difficult to sit up and she was right, the bullet isn’t in very deep. He can see the glint of it, mostly hidden in blood and tissue but clearly there. All he needs to do is pull it out. 

Med-X takes away pain but it doesn’t clear your mind the way actual healing does. His hands are shaking when he approaches the bullet, not from fear but purely the inability to keep them still. The sharp tips dig into flesh so numbed it feels foreign, once, twice before he can get a hold of the bullet, hissing when he pulls it slowly out. The top was lodged very thoroughly in bone and feeling something scratch against it is nauseating, even though the agony he should be feeling doesn’t come.

When he finally pulls the bullet out, he tosses it aside along with the tweezers. 

Next is cleaning the wound. There’s no point in healing if he’s just going to die of an infection. Somewhere, he wonders why his survival instinct is still intact. She only ordered him to remove the bullet, he could do nothing else, hope for infection, but he doesn’t. He’s lived through worse employers, he’ll live through this one. It’s clear she’s an addict, the track marks along her arms are obvious even from a distance, so he’ll either watch her overdose or get the pleasure of putting a bullet through her skull the moment she sells him. There’s nothing to do but wait. 

He tries not to think about how quickly he’s returned to this way of thinking. 

Charon searches through the bag again for water, flushes the hole out until the wound runs clean. Almost immediately he feels another needle pierce his skin, this time rebuilding bone and knitting the flesh together in a quick, clean line. It’s a fresh stimpak, probably homemade. 

She must have been standing behind him the whole time. Watching. 

“Normally, I don’t like leaving behind something I can sell,” His employer circles around him, arms behind her back, pacing like a predator. “But your last owner wasn’t worth the stimpaks I’d have to waste on it.” She’s watching him calmly, lips crooked up lightly, as if they’re having a casually pleasant conversation. 

“It looked empty by the time I found you anyway. Seemed like there was more blood on the pavement then in its veins by that point.” 

He won’t flinch, won’t picture it, pushes his expression to be cold, neutral. 

She looks frustrated at his lack of response, frowns and steps closer.

“But what did I find in its pocket?” She waits expectantly, staring at Charon like she actually wants an answer. When he doesn’t give her one, doesn’t respond in anyway, she continues. “Well, I suppose you could say I found you!” She walks over to him, pets his head with surprising tenderness. 

“What luck.” Her voice is velvet stretched across sandpaper.

She’s playing with him but he can feel the anger beneath the surface, rolling out of her in waves. Every part of her speaks of fury. Her muscles are tensed, pupils contracted down to points. The others seem to have retreated, backing away to the other side of the fire or disappearing into one of the tents. Clearly, they know what she wants from him and they know how she will react when she doesn’t get it. 

“Call me Lo.” Her grin is all teeth. Feral. 

“Welcome to my caravan.” She pulls her hand away to gesture towards her group, swooping her arm in a grand flourish. 

“We’ve got the finest chems, happiest slaves,” She winks at him, nearly mischievous. “and the best liars.” 

The group behind her laughs, two clink their drinks. 

The sky is dark now and she's nothing but shadows and firelight. The red glow catches on her skin, highlighting every muscle, every scar. She looks inhuman, demonic, made of fire and brimstone. 

“And Charon,” Lo turns back to him, hands on her hips, confident, victorious. “You are our newest member.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who was expecting this? I hope you like the twist the story has taken and thank you so much for sticking with me this far. It took 21 chapters to introduce the real love interest but here she is! ( Just kidding ;P ) 
> 
> I'm sorry I'm taking so long to respond to everyone's comments. They mean so much to me. Life's been a little crazy at the moment so it's been hard to get the time to answer everyone properly but I will and I also want to say thank you here. You guys are what encourages me to sit down and write every time. Thank you so much :)


	22. Starting to Rot.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon is beginning to adjust.

When Charon sees Eva again, he freezes. He’s lying in the tent Lo assigned to him when she finds him, curled on his side and waiting. There’s dried blood under his nails that doesn’t belong to him and scratches on his skin from a dead man. It's been a long day. 

He’s been laying here for hours, letting the day drain out of him, waiting for sleep that has become more and more elusive. It’s been an effort to push her from his mind but he’s been succeeding. Nights have been the hardest but for the most part she was gone. He had just managed to push her from his mind and now she’s here, creeping closer on silent feet. 

Eva is paler then he’s ever seen her, veins so dark they could be cracks across her skin. Her face is still bloodied, turned red black with age. He can’t seem to move. 

She crouches beside him, presses an icy hand against his cheek. Her voice cracks when she tries to say his name. 

“Charon? What are you doing here?” She doesn’t sound right, deeper and rougher then he remembers. It’s a struggle to rise, the worst of his wounds have healed but his sides are bruised, back torn to shreds from desperate fingers. He doesn’t know who he was, why Lo hated him, but he knows what his throat feels like under his hands, how he screams. The blood coating his fingers itches. 

“Eva?” He shouldn’t touch her with these hands but he does, needs to. Black flakes fall away from her skin when he returns her gesture, cups her face softly, hoping she won’t vanish under his hand. 

She nuzzles into his palm, presses a kiss to his wrist with chapped lips. The tears sliding down her face are tinted red. 

“Do you miss me?” 

He chokes, nods and reaches for her. Eva is small in his arms, feels thinner, breakable. It doesn’t stop him from squeezing her tighter. For a moment, she just lets him hold her, pressing her cheek against his chest. Her hair smells like iron and dust. 

“Where were you?” He whispers the question into her neck, lips gliding over cold skin. 

Eva’s hands find their way to his shirt, clenching the fabric in tight fists. She shakes her head. 

“I’m dead, remember? I couldn’t find you.” 

Charon nods, moves his hand to stroke her hair but it comes away in clumps. The strands are slick, coated in brownish rot that sticks to his fingers and burns his skin. He jerks away, instantly hating himself when he sees her face. She looks hurt, kneeling on the dirt floor, hands still raised to hold onto him. The tears running down her face are dark red now, dripping from her chin to her knees in a slow rhythmic pattern. 

She tries to reach for him but stops when he recoils. The tips of her fingers are just bone, bleached white beneath the decaying flesh. She laughs a little, almost disappointed. 

“I’ve been falling apart without you.” Her face starts to distort, the left half melting and she’s forced to pull her reaching hand back completely to catch the eye spilling out of her socket. Her tears have changed from red to putrid brown. 

“Charon.” She hiccups his name, the word catching on the tail end of a weak sob. 

“I told you I’d die alone.” 

…

The dreams have been repeating themselves lately. Sometimes it takes her longer to start rotting, she’ll fall apart beneath him after he’s pulled her into his bed. He’ll spend the rest of the night desperately trying to put her back together, grabbing bones and meat until she’s unrecognizable, trying to piece together something with no form. She spills from his fingers, nothing but liquid gore.

Other nights it begins with a kiss. At first it feels like a perfect dream, her arms wrapped around him, warm and safe. Then Eva’s lips will start to give away beneath the pressure, turning to fetid meat until his teeth crack against hers. 

Those nights he wakes up sick, tasting death and wondering why the flavor refuses to fade. 

During the day, he can push it all away but it seems his subconscious won’t let her go. Guilt seems to be the defining trait of each dream, losing her, rejecting her, hurting her. Each night he destroys Eva and each morning he struggles to ignore the shame twisting in his gut. 

Lo picks up on those days, sniffs out his vulnerability like a starving wild dog. Today, she notices his distress immediately, catches the hitch in his shoulders, the strain in his jaw and nearly purrs. 

“Good Morning Charon. Sleeping well?” A week has passed since she taunted him with his contract but the visceral thrill she seems to find in owning him has yet to fade. She throws an arm over his shoulder, head level to his and winks. 

“We’ve got an exciting day ahead of us!” She gives him a little squeeze, smiling like they’re sharing an inside joke. “Looks like you’ll get a chance to earn your keep.” 

Charon blinks at her, lips turned down slightly in the perpetual frown that he’s adapted over the years. He’s stopped responding to most of her taunts. At first Lo used simple tactics to try to goad him into a reaction, threats of what she’ll make him do, reminders of how much control she has over him, but eventually she realized they weren’t working. 

Mentioning Eva managed to get enough of a reaction for a while. Try as he might, Charon couldn’t repress the slight flash of pain each time Lo would bring her up. She would describe her casually, picking at little details like how many scorch marks lined her arms, the dark bruises forming post mortem as her blood settled into the half of her body pressed against the cement. It fueled his dreams of her, taking away the fresh death and replacing it with the symptoms of older corpses, with bloat and bugs. 

Eventually he learned to steel himself against the images. Even as Lo picked away at him, describing Eva’s distended stomach as her body began to rot, the small holes in her skin where bugs had found a fresh meal, he didn’t respond. If it was bringing Lo pleasure, he would do his best to feel nothing. 

Her words might creep into his nights, distort the memory of Eva into something horrible, but Lo would never know it. 

They pass by Jess as they walk towards the center of camp. Waking has become a routine. One the second day Lo ordered him to join her in the morning so now he’s glued to her side, trailing after her like a loyal dog. He despises it and the rest of Lo’s group seem disconcerted with his presence, torn between loyalty to Lo and jealousy for her new favorite toy. Luckily, they are uncertain about Charon so they mostly keep their distance but he’s starting to get a gage on each one. 

Jess is Lo’s first hand, the only one of the seven that doesn’t seem to dip into their supply of drugs recreationally. Unless they’re fighting, she avoids anything stronger then liquor. Samson is the main bulk of their defense. He has stimpaks and med-x strapped to his person at all times. Three days ago, Charon watched him fight with a knife plunged hilt deep in his side, the med-x dulling the pain enough that he didn’t seem to notice it until his opponent was dead. 

Med-X is the main drug of choice amongst the group. Lo enforces the habit. She’s gleeful when they fight, watching her people continue on when any normal human would have dropped from the pain. 

Psycho is a close second. 

Kay, Dee, and Voge fight best together. They share a tent, retiring early most nights if Lo won’t acknowledge them. Her attention seems to be the ultimate prize in the caravan, each member flocking around her at night. Sometimes she picks a favorite to dote on, other times she entertains the whole group. Backlit with firelight, she basks in the attention, playing up the showmanship she displayed that first day with whatever she talks about, the others hanging on her every word. 

The way they watch her, Charon at first suspected they were a sort of harem. The amount of devotion they display made it obvious they’d do anything for her, but each night she retires to her tent alone. Others in the group have various relationships but she seems to stay above it all. 

With the way Lo sometimes watches him, he wishes she didn’t. 

He follows her to the center of camp, grabbing the rest of the roasted mirelurk from last night at her command. As much as she enjoys watching him suffer, he eats noticeably better than most of the group. It’s clear that she thinks of him as no more than a possession, but judging by her actions, it’s also clear that he is one of the most prized. 

The meat is dry and chewy and the taste of rot still clings to his tongue but he chokes it down. Lo revels in giving orders and this was just another chance. She watches his every bite, eyes lit with hunger at each extra swallow he needs to push it down. 

She tosses him a can of water when he’s finished, orders him to drink even though it isn’t necessary. 

The metallic taste of it washes away every other flavor but it does nothing to erase the lump of disgust in his throat when he sees Lo’s gaze follow a stray droplet sliding down his neck. 

There’s nothing Charon can do to stop it however so, when he finishes, he crushes the can in his fist and drops it to the ground to grind it beneath his heal, wishing it was her throat instead of old aluminum under his foot. Lo chuckles softly, clearly aware of where his misplaced aggression is directed. 

Charon scowls. He’s done it again. The cold dead hatred he used to feel for his employers has yet to return. Those few months with Eva unlocked too much and now the anger he feels is alive again, burning too hot not to scorch him. Each day he works to harden himself and each day he fails, revealing with some small action how much he still despises her. It’s a battle he seems to be losing and a fight Lo loves to watch. 

David and Lusk settle down on either side of Lo, each popping open a can of cram as they watch her. They do everything together and their motions are nearly in synch as they eat. Even in battle, their attacks mirror each other’s perfectly.  
Lo beams at the two, “Do you remember our sweet benefactors in our favorite little settlement across the river?” 

They nod though he doubts it’s a true response. Lo is vague at the best of times, preferring theatrics over clarity. 

“We’ve done so much for them over the years. We’ve supplied them, we’ve supported them.” She presses a hand to her breast, an expression of false distress on her face. 

“Most of all, we’ve protected them.”

The others have started to gather at her words, watching with undivided attention. 

“And what have they done in return? Well,” her expression turns devious, her ever present smile twisting the corners of her lips up into something wicked. “They stopped sending us payments.” 

Several members of the caravan boo, entirely caught up in the tale Lo is weaving. 

“Now why would they stop, you might be asking, after all the kind things we’ve done for them?” Her deep voice grows slick, “It’s because they don’t appreciate us anymore, they don’t think they need us.” 

Dee and Voge hiss but it’s clear they’re not upset. There’s a tangible feeling of excitement building in the air as Lo talks, the promise of something thrilling stirring through the small crowd like a solid, living thing. 

“I think they forgot just how harsh this cruel world can be.” Lo shrugs, clapping a hand down on Charon’s shoulder for no reason other than to emphasize her next words. 

“Let’s remind them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a filler chapter but I needed to introduce some characters. Can you tell how terrible I am with picking names? 
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me through these chapters, I know they're pretty harsh...
> 
> Also thank you for commenting! Again, I haven't been able to answer everyone yet but I'm working on it! It's so incredibly awesome hearing what everyone is thinking! I love hearing your predictions and opinions on what's going on. You've all honestly given me so many insights on where I want the story to go so thank you. :) I know I say it a lot but you guys are amazing! <3


	23. Bone Shards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lo shows her loyalty.

Tonight’s dream is calm. Eva is pressed into her usual corner of the couch, feet tucked away and fiddling with her pip-boy. Charon can hear the Mister Handy cleaning upstairs, the whir of its fans almost soothing as it drifts down the stairs to mingle with Eva’s quieted radio. 

It feels domestic, sweet. 

He joins her on the couch, curls around her like it’s second nature. She shifts to lean into him, rests her head on his shoulder, eyes still fixed on the pip-boy screen. He doesn’t understand why she looks so focused, the screen is nothing but static. 

“I don’t know where we are.” She’s biting her lip in frustration while she twists the dial, hard enough to break the skin. Two drops of blood hit the screen, bleed through the glass, staining the static. She tries to whip it away but the glass cracks, suddenly old and tarnished, the face of a broken clock. 

Upstairs, Charon hears the Mister Handy start to tick. 

“The map isn’t working, Charon.” Eva says his name like a question, lilting up and fading into more static. She tilts her head towards him, mouth twisting, still bleeding. Her eyes are nothing but dark holes. Gaping. Empty.

Charon saw it coming, knew deep down what he would see when he looked at her. 

He strokes her cheek gently, suddenly so incredibly sad. Not disgusted or horrified, just painful, heavy sadness. Carefully, he pulls her closer, tucks her blind eyes against his chest, runs his fingers through her hair. He tries to hush her when she starts to cry, sharp jolting sobs into his chest, but his voice is nothing but the whisper of spinning fans. 

“No matter what I do, I can’t make it work.” Eva’s fingers knot in his shirt, split the fabric, dig into his flesh. Behind him, the Mister Handy gasps in pain. 

“I don’t know where I am.” She’s trembling now, first just light tremors and then violent, shuddering like she’s going to pieces. He holds her tighter, presses a dry crackling kiss into her hair. It tastes like ash, falls away beneath his lips. He knows what’s coming, can feel it in his very core, but it still hurts when she shatters. There is no gore this time, nothing but broken bone, dry and sharp, shards digging into his throat, his hands. 

Charon is alone on the couch, surrounded by pieces of her, fragments. He picks up the pip-boy, turns it in his hands until he can see the screen. The static grows brighter, louder. It sparks, a perfect burst of dazzling white. The screen goes black. 

…

The dream stays with him through the morning. The breeze is a whirring fan, the crunch of sand under boots as rough as bone against bone. Lo drums her fingers as she plots their route. It fades into a steady ticking. 

Kay sits beside him and pops a Nuka cola against her boot, the sizzle the same tone of a sputtering screen. He looks away, doesn’t want to dwell on it. Dreaming about Eva always leaves him vulnerable and Lo can spot it in an instant. It’s best if he can just push it from his mind, push her from his mind. 

Instead, he focuses on the horizon, tries not to notice the last few wisps of sunrise lingering in the clouds. He lets his eyes glaze over, the world blur into nothing. 

He's facing the outskirts of camp so he doesn't see Kay’s head explode. 

He feels it. 

Warmth splatters the back of his neck, sticky and horribly familiar. He whips around just in time to see Kay hit the ground. Half of her face is gone, her jaw hanging crooked, snapped by the force of the bullet. The rest is nothing but a mess of gore spilling out onto the dirt beneath her. 

Behind him, Lo snarls. The others are stumbling to their feet, grabbing for their weapons as they eye their surroundings. Most of the area is flat but there are vast hills to the east, covered with just enough dry brush and stunted trees to easily hide a sniper. Dee and Voge rush towards the corpse, Dee is crying, wailing beside her, but Voge has gone still, clutching at Kay’s hand. Charon can see the muscles in their back tense, knows the scream is coming before it rips out of them, pure agony. 

Charon doesn’t bother to move. Kay’s blood is drying on his skin, slowly growing cold in the still chilly morning air. A week ago, he may have relished the sensation but now it’s just unpleasant. He runs a hand over the back of his neck, stares at the deep red seeping into the cracks in his skin. Disgusting. 

Lo is gathering her people, shouting orders to search the perimeter but pauses when she notices his lack of reaction. Her eyes go cold. 

“You.” She storms over, slipping a switch blade from a pocket in one fluid motion. 

“Did you know anything about this?” Her already deep voice is low, scratching out of her with bared claws. 

Charon stares her down, notes the tick under her left eye, the way her fist tightens around the handle of a knife she slips from a pocket without a thought, second nature. She knows just as well as he does that she can’t use that knife without losing her favorite new possession but Lo looks unhinged. The entire time he’s been with her party, no one has died. A few have come close, Samson seems to make a habit of it, but she hasn’t lost a single member. The raw fury rippling through her body is telling. 

Maybe the intense loyalty the others feel for her isn’t one sided after all.

Charon doesn’t answer, dares her to attack. Just one cut and he can fight back. His contract will be up for grabs after Lo is dead, there’s no way he’s escaping this caravan today, but damn would it feel good to watch her die. She’s seething but he just stares her down. Slowly, trying not to hope, he grins. 

There’s no actual pleasure behind it, the corpse at his feet is just one of eight he wants dead, but he knows it’s just the thing to send her over the edge. Lo taunts with smiles, grins like she knows when and how you’ll die just by looking at you. It’s her favorite intimidation technique and having it reflected back at her? She just might snap. 

“You…” She hisses, throws the blade hard enough to embed it deep in the wood to the left of his thigh. 

“You are going to go out and find whoever shot Kay and you will bring. It. Back.” She stalks towards him until he’s forced to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. Every muscle in her body is tense and Charon can feel just how close he came to having that knife buried in his throat. It’s surprising how little the thought frightens him. 

Lo looks furious that she has to restrain herself, hands working at her sides like she’s struggling not to reach for another weapon. Charon’s grin widens, daring her, but she just steps back, a snarl low in her throat and gestures at Jess to search the north side of the hills. 

“What if I can’t find them?” Even as he asks her, he’s standing and reaching for his gun. The contract is struggling with him but it was an endless order, if he never locates the sniper then he can never stop searching. He has had experience with endless orders before and he knows to avoid them when he can. They are a special kind of Hell. 

Lo glares, perfectly aware of the slip and clearly wanting to let him suffer. She grinds her teeth, looks away. 

“If you don’t find It by tonight, come back to camp. Immediately.” She spins, pointing one callused finger to his chest. “But you fucking try. Nothing is to slow or impede your search. Got it?” She spits the question, teeth bared, almost feral. 

Charon blinks, steels the disinterested expression he wears so well back into place. “Got it.”  
He hitches his rifle onto his shoulder and turns towards the hill, stepping over the slumped corpse just to rub dirt in the wound. Dee is quiet now, brushing a bloodied lock of hair off of the half of Kay’s face that is still intact. Voge glares at his side, watches 

Charon with pure hate when his boot deliberately crunches down on a chunk of Kay’s skull. 

Most of the company doesn’t know what to think of him but it’s clear he’s made at least one enemy today. Charon doesn’t acknowledge the stare, just grinds his heel harder into the dirt and moves on. The air is starting to warm, the morning sun baking heat into the already dry earth. His contract is burning in the back of his skull, tugging him forward, tightening his grip on his shotgun, dragging his eyes across the horizon. 

Charon couldn’t care less who shot Kay but his orders do. 

…

The hills are sparse when he finally reaches them. Several long-abandoned mole rat dens cut through the first few, the old occupants having chewed their way through both the earth and the foliage. Charon nudges one of the fresher mounds with the barrel of his gun but nothing emerges. Molerat are territorial and he’d rather fight them now then have them become aware of him once his back is turned. The top of the mound crumbles but after a beat, with no response, he moves on. 

He traces his way through the hills, checks every divot, behind every bush, but finds nothing. Finally, two hours into his search, he stumbles onto an abandoned campsite hidden between two large boulders. There’s no fire, unless the shooter was completely oblivious to the danger just ahead of them they wouldn’t have risked a smoke trail, but there’s remnants of a meal. A half-eaten can of Pork n’ Beans lays on its side next to a dented tin cup filled with still damp herbs. 

He stays bent over that cup for as long as Lo’s orders allow, pulling deep slow breaths in and out as he tries to push a very specific night from his mind. The image of an almost kiss, budding attraction and misinterpreting signals, it seems so unrealistically romanticized. He’s starting to wonder how such a different section of his life even came to be. 

Charon stands, contract pushing him onward. Someday, years from now, he’s certain Eva will seem like some strange dream, a fantasy he made up to escape from the empty stretch of these endless years. If it wasn’t for Lo, he’d like to enjoy the time while she still exists in reality but, with an employer on the hunt for any hint of weakness, her fading away can only help. 

Still, even knowing it would be best if Eva just became something out of an old dream, Charon is careful not to tip the cup as he passes by. 

…

Evening comes quickly enough without any more signs of the sniper. The order has been building up, getting urgent as the day goes on, pushing first logic and then basic thought from his mind. Once night hits, it’s like a curse breaking. The blinding drive disappears, released by Lo’s reluctant stipulation. Charon nearly falls, knees going weak at the sudden relief. The pounding in his head, the heat prickling his skin, burning needles in his joints, the agony of motion that somehow grow worse with inactivity, it all vanishes. 

He sighs, turns to make his way back to the campsite just in time to see a figure dart into a small patch of trees. 

For a moment, Charon freezes, his specific instructions burning in the front of his mind but it’s night so he’s free to ignore the shadowy presence still hesitating behind the grove. They don’t move, hidden mostly by a larger tree trunk but he can just see the hint of something peeking around to watch him. 

He should go, has to go but he slows his walk as much as possible, makes his way by the trees as closely as he dares, not wanting to scare off whoever is watching him. When he’s close enough to hear the faint snap of a twig as the sniper shifts, the restrained gasps of attempting to quiet heavy breathing, he risks it. 

“They’re slavers.” He hisses it as loud as he dares, hoping no one in the camp has come looking for him. Lo may not be able to hurt him but her sadism is creative, she could find another way to get revenge if she finds out what he’s about to say.

“They are heading for a small settlement north of here by about two days.” The figure doesn’t respond but they don’t try to run either so it’s good enough. He’s still walking, can’t stop and it’s clear he’ll be out of ears reach soon. He raises his voice, reckless  
but willing to take the risk.

“They have a fortune in caps. Even more in chems.” The person in the grove leans slightly after his voice, clearly straining to catch every word.

“If you attack, kill them all.” The orders are pulling, rebelling at his slow pace. He manages one last sentence before he’s too far away to stay discreet.

“I will do everything in my power to help.” 

The figure nods, nearly imperceivably, and turns, sprinting away on silent feet.

…

By the time Charon makes it back to camp, it’s completely dark. A fire has been lit in the center, large and crackling, but the seven figures surrounding it are subdued. Kay’s body has been removed and dirt has been kicked over a majority of the blood stains where she fell. He can see Lo, standing closest to the fire, strong square features highlighted by the flickering light. When she spots him, she turns, striding forward with all the calm grace of a deathclaw stalking its prey. 

“You come back empty handed.” She ‘tsks’ quietly, like he’s a child who’s failed to follow instructions. Once she’s just in front of him, she stops. She is close enough to count her scars, smell the campfire smoke already imbedded in her clothes. 

“You were awfully disappointing today, Charon.” She isn’t smiling, isn’t playing. It’s the most serious he’s ever seen her and it’s terrifying. 

“I got a little mad at you today but you and I both know where that knife was headed.” Without her habitual smile, Lo’s eyes go dead, cold and unseeing. 

“I can’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.” She lifts a hand to stroke his cheek, emphasizing ‘never’ as her calluses catch on his pocked skin. 

“I wouldn’t want to lose my favorite new toy.” Behind her, Dee and Voge step forwards. Dee’s grieving has faded, replaced with a hatred mirrored on Voge’s face. 

“But I can’t speak for everyone. We all lost someone today but these two?” She shakes her head, for the first time her flair for showmanship showing through her mournful veneer. “I don’t think these two have ever been just a pair.”  
Lo turns to them, points at both Voge and Dee in turn. 

“You do not have permission to hurt my new favorite.” She looks back to Charon, her usual smile subtle but back in place. 

“See Charon?” In the shadows, she is nothing but eyes and teeth, glinting white in the moonlight. “I watch out for my own.” 

She pats his shoulder as she steps by him, heading away from the fire and towards her personal tent. 

“Good night.” 

Charon can hear her footsteps, the soft swish of her tent flap closing behind her, just as Voge’s fist slams into his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, sorry for the delay you guys. This week has been insanely frustrating! Writing has helped and all of you, I can't express how much your support and kindness has cheered me up these past few days. Thank you! <3
> 
> I hope you liked the chapter and I'll see you soon! :p


	24. Going to Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The caravan finally reaches the town. 
> 
> (As you probably already guessed, this chapter gets a bit gory)

Tonight, Charon matches Eva wound for wound. 

Bruises on ghouls are horrifying. His skin is already mottled, rotted through with radiation, but now blotchy green and purple muddy the reds and browns, fanning out under his broken flesh, filling up the cracks. 

Eva traces a snapped finger over his thigh, yellowing bone peeking out of meat that has started to fester, blackish edges curling in on themselves. She explores the new colors, digs a nail into a scab until it cracks. He groans, leans towards her as she presses a whisper of a kiss against his cheek, falling into him, putting weight on the bruise until he hears the final pop of her finger snapping in half. 

“Watch out, Charon.” He can’t remember what she sounds like, not perfectly, but he knows this voice and it isn’t Eva. 

When he looks up, he finds scars cutting pale notches through dark brows, grinning teeth tipped with blood, woven through with gristle. 

Lo catches him in her calloused hands, digs her thumbs into his skin, smile impossibly wide. It splits her face, curls up to her ears, one a deformed mirror of the other. She pulls him close enough to press her cheek against his, her Cheshire smile sharp enough to tug at his skin. It digs in and pulls like a razor as she presses tight, cold lips grazing the outer shell of his ear. 

“You’re my favorite.” 

….

Charon wakes up sore. He knows the real reason for the deep slash across his cheek, remembers Voge digging the knife in before the others pulled them away, but he can’t shake the feeling that it came from Lo. For the rest of the night, Charon feels her smile marking him, knows her happiness like a familiar ache. Her grin burns across his skin, eases him to a restless sleep, eternally pleased. 

….

The caravan reaches their destination by dusk. 

Charon is still stiff from the beating so he’s unnerved when Lo presses a stimpak into his hand. His personal med kit mysteriously vanished after the attack so he has spent the last two days desperately attempting to keep up with the caravan despite the beating. Limping after the others, struggling to stay close, to follow orders, has aggravated his injuries, slowing the healing process and leaving him exhausted each night, so sore it’s a struggle to move. 

It was clear the attack was her idea, no matter what she claims. There’s no way her people would go against a direct order, especially when his entire body would serve as evidence of their disobedience. He hates to think of why she would suddenly want him in peak shape again. 

It still doesn’t stop him from using the stim. 

The pain fades the moment the needle pierces his arm. Lo is a talented chemist, she and Jess seem to make a majority of the drugs they sell, so the stim is fresh enough that he has to be careful to pull the needle out before the skin can attempt to heal up around it. Everyone else in the caravan is marked by it, tiny pitted scars, too deep and too randomly placed to be normal track marks. They speckle the crew’s flesh like deeply gouged freckles, just another way to prove who they belong to. If Charon’s skin wasn’t already so disfigured, by now he’s certain he would match. 

“We all know why we’re here.” Lo watched him inject, not breaking the line of sight until every cut and bruise had faded, but now she’s turned away to address the rest of her people.

“They stopped believing in us, lost their faith. We know they won’t change their minds and…well…look at this.” Lo gestures to the town. They are perched high, on the edge of a rock face overlooking the settlement. It’s a patchwork town, old prewar houses held together with whatever material the wastelanders could get their hands on. 

“Doesn’t look like much.” She sighs like she’s heartbroken and it’s nearly believable, even with her perpetual smirk still tilting just the corners of her mouth upwards. 

“Doesn’t even seem worth our time.” In the town, a generator sputters awake, speckling the area with little fluorescent bursts of light. 

“I don’t think they are worth correcting. Instead, I think we should just take the opportunity given to us.” 

She winks and he watches her eyes come to life, bright as the crackling lights behind her. Lo is no longer the chemist that brewed up the stimulants Samson has tucked into his belt or the strategist that fanned out the group the day before, picking each position to take out a group of raiders boasting twice their numbers. She isn’t even the leader who began this speech, gathering up her people like her personal flock. 

Right now, Lo is nothing but a predator, a feral cat that found something just alive enough to struggle, strong enough to make the hunt exciting. She is teeth and muscle and sinew. Claws and fangs. Lo turns towards the settlement, a sharp wind twisting the few tendrils of hair she keeps long. Her voice is low, husky with an emotion almost akin to lust. 

“If you can’t fix them, you make them an example.” 

After her speech, the mood of the group changes, each member shifting from the unstated comfort of familiarity to the restless tension of hunters. Samson sorts out his tool belt, tucking the more fragile chems securely in place before reaching for a hit of psycho. He shudders as the drug takes hold, pupils blowing wide as every muscle in his body tenses at once. 

Jess pops two familiar green pills, washes the buffout down with water, chokes, then takes two more. She’s usually a calm person, more intellectually useful then physically but she pairs her drug with mentats, clutching at her head as the two counteract. It’s a dangerous gamble but this way she’s still useful, still clever enough for tricky maneuvers but strong enough to tear the enemy limb from limb if her first plan of attack fails. When she comes down she’ll be useless for at least a day, eyes dull and unseeing, so weak she won’t be able to feed herself but for now she’s nearly invincible. 

Jess tilts her head up, sucks in the air like it’s her first breath. She screams into the wind. 

David and Lusk are quiet, carefully preparing their weapons, helping each other inject their med-x with calm precision. When they finish, they turn to face each other, pressing their foreheads together and breathing, deep and slow, until each breath comes in tandem. 

Only Voge and Dee seem lost. Charon has watched these rituals a multitude of times, seen Jess peak and collapse, Samson numb himself completely, watched the two brothers immolate each other until they seem more like one entity then two. The trio usually prep together but now they seem out of synch, stumbling through the routine with jolting pauses each time Kay isn’t there to do her part. 

Dee keeps shooting tormented glances his way and Charon can see Voge tense every time they pass him by. The sniper has yet to show themselves so all their loss has been directed completely at Charon, the beating doing little to sooth the fury they both still clearly feel. Yet somehow the attack has been isolated to that one night, a rule Charon is certain came direct down the line from Lo. If she hadn’t said something, he has no doubt he would have been targeted again. 

Charon shoulders past them, unnecessarily close, just to watch the anger nearly boil over in Voge, to see Dee stop to calm them down. 

Lo disappears during the prep before battle. Charon has never managed to discover what her secret blend of chems consists of but she always returns jittery and violent. All her decorum vanishes, once she is ready to fight, they fight. Whatever is pushing her, sadism, anger, or chems, nothing can hold her back once she exits her tent. The moment Lo joins them, the attack has begun. 

They approach the town without any attempt at stealth. Jess has already tipped off anyone within range but it’s clear that isn’t the reason why. This isn’t a battle to the others, it’s not a fight or a even much of a risk. To them, this is pure sport. Lo’s charm and skills as a chemist might have caught her flock initially but it isn’t what’s kept them close. They follow her like loyal dogs because she understands them. The caravan may be her personal beasts but she always knows when to let them out to play. 

The entrance to the town is poorly guarded. Two turrets sit atop the haphazard wall built up around the town but, as they approach, both of the machines fail to whir to life. As Charon passes them by, he can see thick rust coating the metal. It’s clear these defenses haven’t worked in years, left standing only in a faint hope to fool the unobservant. 

David and Lusk take out the two guards, slitting their throats even though they have already sounded an alarm. A gunshot wouldn’t have made a difference but it’s rare to see the two use anything that requires distance from the victim. The bodies drop to the dust, each corpse hitting the ground just a beat apart. They catch each other’s eyes and, though Charon has never seen a clear expression on either of them, he’s certain they’re pleased. 

Lo laughs, high on the sight of their first kill. Abruptly, she turns and rushes Charon, too strung out to hold back any of the excess energy shivering along her limbs. Her hands are unsteady when she grabs him but even still the grip is of iron. 

“I want to see my new toy in action tonight, Charon.” Her eyes are boring into his, unblinking. 

“I’d guess there are about thirty people in this town.” The hands on his arms tighten, tug him close until they are almost pressed together. 

“You are going to kill ten of them.” Lo breaths the order out, excitement strong as the jet on her breath. She squeezes him as if they’re conspiring over some shared desire, grins like a mad woman and turns away. People are already starting to exit their homes and she is far too ready for the hunt to begin. 

Charon’s mind shuts down just as the order takes hold.

He’s already killed at her command but this is something else entirely. This is slaughter. Somewhere inside him, he feels a distant horror dawning as he raises his gun, already searching for the first hit, but the rest is empty. His limbs are numb even as he strides forward, hitches the shotgun higher, aims, and shoots the first person in range. Somewhere, the ghost of someone is screaming, someone he knows he’ll never see again, who would have dropped everything to try to stop this. Distantly, he can hear her but soon the actual screaming blends in, takes over, and then everything fades into a dull roar. 

Charon kills two more, a woman charging at him with a dented bat and a boy small enough that he’s forced to lower his aim. 

Three. That’s three. Seven more. 

The number beats in his pulse, throbbing in time to the sensations of the order, desperate to be filled, prickling cold and sharp along his skin. Eva is gone. Everything is gone.  
The next one he barely even sees. The settler had the misfortune of turning a corner directly in his line of sight. Charon isn’t certain he even saw him raise his gun. The man drops instantly but most of his head remains, spattered against the wall behind him. 

Four. Six more. 

Somewhere Lo is laughing as Jess screams. The slick thunk of metal crashing down through meat and bone echoes through the street. Blood stains ancient cement. Someone in the town is shouting orders. Someone else is crying.

An older man falls as he charges, skids on the dirt. Charon aims and the life in his eyes fades before the momentum does. 

Five. Half way there. 

A body crashes into him, Dee. He elbows Charon in the chest to push away, lifting a freshly stained knife, eyes wild. 

Charon shoots him in the back before he can take a step. When the body drops, the knife slips from his hand, the blade twisting just enough to dig into Dee’s shoulder, deep enough to severe a tendon. Charon wonders if he can feel it. 

Four left. 

The order was clear. Kill ten people in the settlement. He pulls the knife from Dee’s corpse and turns away. The town is set up like a suburban cul-de-sac but he finds Voge quickly enough. A part of him wants to taunt, wave the knife in their face before plunging it into their throat but the contract pushes the blade in for him. Words sputter out of Voge’s lips but they are silent, nothing but blood and spittle on a dying breath. 

Three. Three more. 

Night has fallen completely. Charon can no longer hear gunshots, just one terrified shout cut off half way through. A fluorescent light sputters out to his left just as a generator off in the distance explodes, a casualty from a misaimed spray of bullets. 

Abstractly, Charon wonders if he is going to die. It wouldn’t matter but for the number three, three more lives pulsing at his fingertips. Obey the order. His mind is empty so there is nothing to stop Lo’s command from spilling in, flooding every corner, pouring out into desperation as he searches. 

Without the crackling fluorescents, this section of the town has gone almost jet black, any moonlight blocked out by the still burning afterglow prickling in his eyes from the bulb’s last burst of life. 

It’s why he doesn’t notice David emerging from the shadows until two vice like hands wrap around his throat. 

Charon drops, caught off guard by the impact and tries to throw him, twisting, clawing at whatever skin he can reach. One finger catches an eye and he feels it give, feels his nail burst through the surface and dig down towards the back of the socket. David screams, a horrible deep noise that rumbles in his chest, mouth open wide enough to reveal what’s left of his tongue, thickly scarred where half of it must have been roughly cut away years ago. Charon has never heard the man make a sound and now he wishes he still hasn’t, the shriek turning into something inhuman, guttural and born of pain as he pushes his finger in deeper. 

“Stop!” 

Charon freezes. Lo’s voice is deeper, thick and rough from a dose of psycho but the contract recognizes her authority instantly. He pulls his hand from David’s face with a wet shlick and falls onto his back, panting. At some point during the fight, David must have clawed across his throat because he can suddenly feel it, freshly shorn flesh prickling as it’s exposed to the chilled night air, cold blood trickling down his skin. 

Above him, Lo steps into view. Her right eye is swollen shut and her lip is cut, already swelling. Her teeth are bared, threaded through with sinew, a perfect echo of his dream the night before. He shudders to think of how the meat got there, what poor soul felt Lo’s teeth sink into their flesh.

She drops, propping her arms on her knees so she can lean in close. Before she smelled like jet but now there is nothing but a thick miasma of blood on her breath. 

“You fucking trash. Did you think this was some big break for you? Kill my people? Escape?” Her voice is hushed, caring through the night air on fury alone. 

“Or were you just being petty?” Lo spits, thick saliva spattering his check. He flinches despite himself, adrenaline still high enough to leave him jumpy, his reflexes still ready for battle despite the order. 

“Pathetic.”

Lo stands, her face hidden in the shadows. 

“I’m not going to let you go. I’m not going to kill you.” The emotion in her voice is gone. She sounds almost robotic as she speaks, empty enough to be a prerecording.

“I’m just going to teach you a lesson.” Lo gestures and Samson steps forward, tugging two settlers, bloodied and bruised but still alive, along with him. Jess joins him, holding two more. 

“These are the last four we can find, decided to keep a few once I heard you shot Dee.” She looks them up and down, smirking when one of them crumbles, tips forward and vomits onto the cement. Her head is down, face mostly hidden behind thin brown hair, long strands sticking to her cheek and mouth from the blood and bile. 

“Do you think you’re some bleeding heart? Think you can get away without doing what I say?” Lo’s calm demeaner snaps and she lunges forward, eyes wild, a thick vein bulging on her brow. 

“You are mine!” She shouts it, spittle forming at the corner of her lips, for the first time revealing how deeply under the influence of chems she still is. Manic, blood shot eyes jump from him to the four captives as her hands curl into fists.

“You think I can’t hurt you and maybe I can’t,” Her jaw clenches enough to pop at the admittance, shockingly loud in the eerie quiet. “But I can break you.”

Samson pushes the brown-haired settler forward. She stumbles and falls to her knees, head still lowered, shoulders slumped. She has given up hope, maybe even gone into shock but Charon still sees her jolt when Lo speaks again.

“You are going to kill these four prisoners personally. But!” Lo raises a finger before he can move, stalling the impulse to obey just long enough to hear the rest of the command. 

“But before they die, you are going to break every single bone in their bodies.” 

The captive finally responds, head jerking upwards, fixing a shocked stare on her soon-to-be killer. Charon stares back, horrified. 

For just a moment he thinks it’s Eva but no, she’s a stranger. Her face is rounder, skin tanner and less scarred. Despite himself, he rises, steps towards her as the order takes hold. In terror, she tries to run but Samson catches her, large hands locked down on already bruising arms. Even still she struggles but Charon can’t stop, fighting against each step just as fruitlessly as the condemned woman before him.

Just as he reaches for her, catches her hand, closes a fist around the first finger, it hits him, why she looked so familiar. Eva’s eyes and the prisoner’s. They are the exact same shade of blue. 

He watches them fill with tears as the first bone snaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry I vanished! I had a major block with this chapter (there are four different versions saved to my computer) but I think I'm happy with how it came out. I hope you like it too! 
> 
> Charon's life can't get much worse, can it? But he did manage to get a little retribution! 
> 
> And as always, thank you all so much. Your encouragement and kindness and enthusiasm are always what brigs me back to this story. I love writing it but without you, it would just be in my head. So thanks and I'll talk to you all soon! <3 :)


	25. Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

_Three months later. ___

____

Lo digs the tip of her knife underneath the man’s nail, twists the blade until it tears away from his flesh. Charon grips his wrists harder in anticipation but the captive doesn’t struggle, just sobs out something incoherent. It’s clear they’ve already reached his pain threshold, anything else will just be extra work for no reward. It seems that, for now, the small amount of information they’ve already coaxed out of him is all they’re going to get. 

__

The caravan found him early yesterday morning, hiding in a recently abandoned settlement with a bag full of scavenged supplies and an empty pistol. After the attack two months ago, other groups under their protection have tried to flee. Of the three they’ve visited so far; this town was the first to evacuate in time. 

__

Lo sighs, sets the knife down by the man’s bleeding foot and looks to Charon. 

__

“Are we wasting our time?” She taps a finger against the man’s bloodied toes, bouncing the tip down each digit thoughtfully. Next to his heel, five broken nails lay in a sticky heap. 

__

Charon drops his hold on the prisoner’s wrists and steps away. Physical contact has been bothering him more lately and the man’s skin is slick with sweat. He whips his palms against his thighs, trying to erase the phantom sensation still lingering on his flesh. 

__

“Unless we wait for him to calm down, I think we are.” It took a month for Lo to start to trust him again but now she listens closely, chuckling humorlessly at his response. 

__

“You know how I feel about waiting.” She plucks up the knife as she ponders the man now fading in and out of consciousness on the dingy kitchen table. The house they are in is in relatively good shape, still sporting some of its original furniture, though the more modern additions have been torn apart in its previous occupants’ haste to evacuate. 

__

Charon nods his head towards the door, hoping to leave the darkened room sooner than later. He is starting to itch from the stranger’s proximity and Lo can tell, grinning at his discomfort, clearly pleased at how easily she can now read him. 

__

“We don’t need him. There aren’t many places a group big enough to fill this town could go.” He glances towards the exit, eyeing the darkening sky, just now realizing how long they’ve been inside. The urge to leave the enclosed space abruptly doubles. 

__

When he takes a tentative step towards the exit, he can hear Lo’s heavy tread behind him. Tonight, they will most likely make camp and tomorrow they will head towards the mountains just south of here. There are caves throughout the range and, while the larger ones could just as easily be home to a yao guai or deathclaw, they are also the best chance the settlers have to hide. He can almost feel Lo’s excitement at the prospect. She would rather track and hunt then follow a lead any day.

__

By now Charon knows Lo’s inclinations so he isn’t surprised when he hears her steps pause or the quiet, wet shlick of her knife sinking into the prisoner’s throat. The man barely makes a sound, probably relieved at the release, just gurgles out one last gasp of either surprise or pain. Her footsteps start up again once his final rasping breath fades. Charon doesn’t stop to look back. 

__

The air is cool tonight and Charon sucks it in the moment he’s outside, filling his lungs with anything but the heavy mix of blood and sweat and dust that settled in his chest hours ago. Pale pinks and purples stain the skyline but the pain he used to feel at the sight is long gone. He doesn’t feel anything anymore. 

__

The moment of relief is brief. Burning hot arms wrap around his shoulders, stealing away the sweet evening chill in an instant. He feels a familiar heat on his neck, lips pulled back to bare sharp teeth. They graze his skin, sharp but she doesn’t bite down even though he knows she wants to. 

__

“Can you feel this?” Her voice is quiet, husky, a tone she has reserved just for him. He nods, knowing what she’s asking, but groans anyway when the needle pierces his skin. As the med-x kicks in, the itch fades. Soon he can barely even feel Lo’s mouth on his neck, his flesh no longer jolting, twitching mindlessly beneath her touch. 

__

When she begins to massage the injection point, Charon can’t even bring himself to care. 

__

…

__

The fire is large and crackling when the two of them return to the center of camp. Being around the others has been difficult lately but not with a fresh dose of med-x in his system. Even when Jess slaps his back as she hands him a tepid beer, when Lo drapes her arm around his shoulder as she talks, he doesn’t care. His body is asleep, his skin is numb. 

__

Lo is eyes and teeth in the firelight but tonight he can’t even feel her gaze. 

__

“Looks like we are hunting down some runaways tomorrow.” She announces the conclusion from the day’s torture, gleeful at the prospect, and the others are picking up on it, eyes widening and smiles going feral. It’s just the five of them now, Lusk died three months ago, killed the same night David lost his eye. He sits alone now, still loyal to Lo but distant from the rest. The others pay him no mind. 

__

They laugh and drink and eat as the sky burns low, skin pink splitting into blood red, festering into darkness. Charon watches as the stars come out, pictures them as pus seeping through dead skin. 

__

He started rotting the sunset intentionally months ago, trying to see the image as something horrible, hideous. At first it was a form of self-protection, preferring revulsion over the lonely wistfulness the sight initially inspired, but now it’s nothing but a nervous habit. 

__

The moon comes up and he sees slivered bone, a broken molar imbedded in bruised skin. Smoke rises into pale grey swirls, burns the world dark, fills the night with shining wet blisters. Tiny white maggots writhe above him, eating away at a corpse, and he wonders when the horror disappeared. 

__

…

__

Charon has grown dependent on med-x to sleep. After that first night, his muscles aching from the effort of breaking four people, the skin on his fists split from beating at long dead flesh, Lo had crept into his tent with a syringe, the first of many. It had taken three injections to dull the world to gray but Lo is a clever chemist and now it’s just one needle, strong enough to kill a human but just enough to affect a ghoul. 

__

He waits in her tent, trying to ignore the horrible sensation of feeling returning to his body, the sharp prickling burn as his nerve endings begin to awaken. She takes her time tonight. It’s been weeks since he’s bothered to hide his dependency and Lo never gives up her chance to relish her complete control over him. By the time the tent flap is pushed open, he’s shaking. 

__

The fire is still burning low outside, casting her face completely in shadow but he can tell she’s pleased by the way she pauses to take in the sight of him, the way he comes down from each hit. Charon doesn’t say a word, knows she’ll give him his dosage when she’s ready, but his skin is on fire, burning like a disobeyed order, one feeling he hasn’t needed the drug to avoid as of late, and he can’t hide the tremors anymore.

__

When she finally crosses the space, presses in close just because she knows he can barely handle her proximity, it’s a struggle to hold still enough for a clean injection. Warmth immediately blossoms across his arm, rushes down into his twitching fingers and up until it reaches his core. It’s the last real sensation he’ll feel for the night and he’s glad of it when Lo doesn’t step away once the syringe is empty. 

__

He knows the drill. The night before they entered the town was the last night he slept alone. Charon’s first assessment of Lo might still be true, she shies away from anything too physical, has never attempted to undress him completely or done anything in pursuit of sexual completion, but she is possessive in a new way, obsessed with the physical contact she knows he loathes. 

__

As Lo leans in, presses into his neck and breathes in the scent of fear and blood still staining his skin from a dead man, he's certain it’s the power she’s enjoying. The others would consent to her out of loyalty but that’s not pure enough. This however, the way he stands stock still, staring at nothing as her hand comes to rest with an iron grip on his hip, as she peels away his outer clothing just to feel his muscles tense from the stress of human contact, this is complete control. He will not disobey, too lost in a haze of her own construction and too bound by the words long faded from the contract always on her person. 

__

Charon belongs to her completely and this is all the proof she needs. 

__

When Lo pulls him down, presses sharp lips to pulse points in her poor simulation of affection, Charon focuses on the med-x flooding his system. He thinks of the stars writhing just outside their tent, can almost hear the quiet patter on the canvas as they drop, pale squirming worms showering down on him like rain. It makes his new-found claustrophobia fade. 

__

In the darkened tent, body almost numb, surrounded by all the side effects of death, he is already a corpse. Lo’s hands explore skin that looks long dead, her teeth scrape nerves that barely respond. Charon closes his eyes and knows where his body really is. His grave. 

__

He has been dead for three months and, as the sweet nothingness of the chem in his veins pulls him under, he is certain that this death is all he really needs. 

__

…

__

Morning comes like a beating. These last few months, if Charon isn’t numb, he’s sore. By now, when he’s gone hours without a dose, any sensation at all translates as pain. He pries open eyes that burn from the pale sunlight filling the tent, the scene turned a sickly yellow green from the faded canvas. 

__

To his left, Lo is asleep, her eyelids twitching rapidly, lost in a dream. 

__

Charon struggles to his feet, trying to ignore the slickness of her skin when her arm slides off his chest to the ground. She shifts, presses further into the traveling cot beneath her, but stays asleep. 

__

Mornings without Lo are a conflicting luxury. When she doesn’t wake before him, he can avoid more contact, can slip from the tent to breath in the thin bracing air but he is also forced to wait for his first dosage. She is the only one allowed to administer his shot and if she sleeps in, he is eventually reduced to retreating from the world, too wracked with waves of nausea and so much pure sensation to function. 

__

At this point, he’s more comfortable with his world staying gray. 

__

When he exits the tent, he finds the morning weak and wet, new born and still teetering on the edge of sleep. He is the first to wake in the camp, another small gift. There is no one to avoid, instead he can circle the area, find where the dew has settled and focus on the first light hitting the droplets, something sharp and precise enough to distract from the daily withdrawal. 

__

To his left something rustles and he turns, disappointed to have already lost the precious silence. Sound ripples through his overly stimulated nerves, pricks little bursts of light behind his eyes but he approaches the noise despite himself. Early mornings require distractions, it’s as much a habit as trying to ruin the setting sun, so he doesn’t think, doesn’t even really care what the sound is until he finds its source. 

__

An intruder. 

__

They’ve brushed against one of the tents, peering carefully through the flaps with surprising stealth. He watches as they check two more tents before approaching. Lo might be angry at his leisurely pace but mornings are for distractions and this thief is more than enough to take his mind off the tingling heat shooting up his waking limbs. Charon creeps towards them, wondering how long he can let this go on before he’s forced to make the kill. His shotgun is still with Lo so it will have to be hands on, skin to skin.  
It’s something he’d like to put off as long as possible. 

__

His feet are still waking, half numb and he lands a little too roughly on the course earth with his next step. The figure jumps, twisting towards him with her gun drawn and he almost dives to the right, ready to dash behind one of the tents so he can circle around from behind. His hands are itching, preparing to touch flesh, to wrap around a throat…but he doesn’t dive, doesn’t even move. Can’t. 

__

They both freeze. 

__

The morning is cold enough to put a touch of color into her pale cheeks. Her dark hair is longer, tangled and she has a new scar, bright pink down her forehead but her eyes are still the same familiar blue. 

__

Charon’s mind stutters, certain he’s dreaming but he hasn’t had one of these dreams in months and she looks alive, when was the last time she looked alive? 

__

Feeling rushes back into his hands, his chest tightens. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat and damn it, the pale pink filling the morning sky is nothing if not alive, flushed cheeks and a pulse. He staggers back. 

__

In front of him, Eva grins.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!  
>  She's back!
> 
> God this chapter was upsetting to write! I am just dragging Charon through the mud. :( Poor buddy.  
> I hope you're all still enjoying this. I'm sorry I haven't responded to everyone's comments yet. Every single one just sends me over the moon and I want you to feel appreciated because I can barely believe how lucky I am to not only have regular readers but such awesome ones! I love hearing your thoughts and insights on what's happening, it feels like we're going through this wild story together. :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and see you soon!


	26. Stalked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva returns.

For a moment, neither of them move. 

It’s been so long and he feels the distance between them in every new feature. Every day apart marks her. The sunrises he missed speckle her shoulders and arms with freckles, skin tinting almost natural with every morning he wasn’t there. Her hair is longer. Her armor is new. 

Seeing her, seeing how she’s changed, it somehow makes him miss her more. 

He’s frozen in place, too shocked, too tired and withdrawn to move. He’d think this was a hallucination, a new symptom of addiction but the hard thump as Eva throws her arms around him is too real to be imagined. Even as his own arms curl around her in response, a new instinct forces him to recoil, jerk away from the physical contact and they both fall. 

They hit the ground with a thud and she’s scrambling off him before he can react. 

“I found you.” Tears are already clinging to the dark curls of her lashes, washing trails of dust off her cheeks when they start to fall. Charon wants to wipe them away but she cups his face and he can’t move, bliss and revulsion fighting each other at her touch. 

“God, I’m so sorry Charon.” Eva’s voice cracks, a burst of sound between whispers. She strokes his cheek and he tries not to flinch, damn it, he tries but the med-x is long gone and he can feel too much. Her brows pinch up, confused, hurt, but she drops her hands away without a word.

“I’m going to get you back, I promise, but there’s too many right now.” She looks ashamed but her eyes never leave his face, staring at him like she’s drowning in the sight. Her words stumble out, heartbroken.

“I can’t fight five people on my own, not this close.” For a moment, she forgets herself, reaches out to touch him again but she stops before she makes contact. He winces anyway, when the number she used hits him. Five. Not four. Eva looks at him and there’s nothing but understanding in her eyes, even when she has to count him as an enemy. His throat closes around the number, sharp points digging in until it feels like a breath caught in his lungs. Charon doesn’t correct her.

“Just know that I’m here, I’m watching.” Her nose is bright pink, eyes crunching up and lips twisted. Eva was always such an ugly crier, face distorting like she was in actual pain and the surge of emotion he feels at the memory burns hard in his chest. 

“I’m not going to abandon you.” Somewhere in the camp, someone begins to move around their tent. The sound sends Eva to her feet. For a second she looks like she’s going to offer her hand but she stops herself, curling her fist to her chest instead. 

“I understand if you hate me. I do.” She shifts her pack, turns her feet away in preparation. 

“But I’m coming back.” Eva stares down at him, her eyes going hard at her words and then soft again. Charon tries to find his voice, tries to tell her everything but nothing comes. His skin is itching, little jolts of pain shooting through nerves that can’t handle anything without a chemical to dull the sensations. He isn’t the person she’s looking for, not anymore. 

She smiles at him, so incredibly sad, and then she’s gone, sprinting away on silent feet into the ruins of the town.

…

When Lo finally comes out, presses a needle to his neck and cold still lips to his cheek, he’s certain she was just a dream. It’s hours later when he wonders, if it was nothing but wishful thinking, why Eva was disfigured. He can still feel her touch on his skin, the slick slide of her palms, and the rough edges on her left hand where three fingers had been torn away. 

…

They decide to head for the mountain range. The corpse they leave behind had little information to give but it’s clear where the settlers had to go. They pack up by late morning and are surrounded by dusty hills by noon.  


Charon walks in a daze. The thought of Eva, alive, has thrown him. Ahead he can see Lo, the sharp cut of her jaw, razor smile pulling her skin taut, and he wonders why he never questioned her. She told him Eva was dead, rotting alone, and no part of him doubted it. She died the day Lo came into his life. Without a fight.

It feels like a betrayal now, his setting her aside so quickly. In a way, he was the one to let her die, did nothing but watch the memory of her decompose, as if some part of him thought that it made more sense. Life with her, it was too lucky. She was some sort of fantasy, some long dismissed loophole to the servitude that defines him, has always defined him. 

Charon looks around, at the killers and sadists by his side. This is what his reality should be. Not stolen kisses and consideration, not companionship. He fell back into his role instantly, entirely ready to accept it. He knew he was always meant for this, built for war and useless after the bombs. When a different leader came along, ready to start a new kind of battle in the wreckage of the world, he was just another weapon to scavenge from the wastes. 

He clenches his hand into a fist, digging his blunted nails into his palm until he can almost feel them. How much of this addiction did he welcome? Working for a monster, a woman who’s only pleasure is derived from exerting her power, how quick was he to accept the sweet relief of nothingness? It was always his strategy, fading away, and she offered him an even easier way to disappear inside himself. These last three months, he has killed, tortured, destroyed everything Lo ordered him to and the med-x made none of it matter. 

Yet now, even with a fresh dose in his veins, Eva has pulled him out and Charon isn’t certain he’s glad for it. Feeling nothing erases any pleasure but it also takes away pain, regret and he has filled these gray months with countless reasons to drown in his own guilt. 

So he gives in, approaches Lo and follows closes, tight at her heels like a loyal pet. If any good has come of her new pantomime affections, it is that he has learned how to please her, how to get what he wants from her. Soon enough she rewards him with an extra dose, enough to make everything fade away. 

If he stumbles as he walks, it’s worth the relief that comes from being completely numb. He could bite off one of his own fingers at this point, crunch through bone and marrow until he matches his living Eva, and feel nothing. Even the thought of her mangled hand, those gentle fingers that once explored his scars, touched him like he was something fragile, precious, it barely affects him. Nothing can hurt now, not even the sickening burst of hope sitting in his stomach like acid. 

He catches Lo’s eye and nods towards a particularly beaten down section of brush. They will follow these people and together they will rip apart whoever Lo deems worthless and enslave anyone who could bring in some caps and Charon knows he will feel nothing. He will feel nothing at all. 

…

They are setting up camp when David dies, throat bursting open in a bright bloom of red. He was rolling out his cot and his corpse slumps down onto it, a macabre imitation of the evening’s coming rest. 

They spend the rest of the night searching for his killer. He follows the others, pushing aside brush and exploring any crevice in the rock, knowing who he’s looking for and praying that he won’t find her. He prays to nothing, begging the cold stars above him and each moon bleached stone that Eva won’t be there when he looks behind it.

Months ago, when Lo had painted the image of Eva, dead and alone on the cement, Charon had believed he’d broken his promise. He hadn’t been there and she had died alone but this possibility is so much worse. The chance to keep his word in the most twisted way possible, to be there when she dies by causing her death, he wants nothing more than to fail to fulfill it tonight. When he finally returns to camp, he is exhausted, nerves fried, torn apart at every chance shadow, every possible hiding spot. He never even caught a glimpse of her but in his mind, she has almost died a thousand times. 

Lo is pacing the camp but when he comes back empty handed she freezes, body going rigid. 

“Nothing?” Her already deep voice is lower, scratching ragged claws against the sandy earth beneath her. Charon shakes his head. By now she won’t doubt his loyalty but that doesn’t mean she isn’t angered by his failure. He isn’t surprised when she takes out his evening dose, presses down on the injector until the entirety of the drug is gone, soaking into the ground, useless. Lo watches him as she does it, clearly hoping for some visible pain, something to feel like she hasn’t lost the day completely, but Charon is too exhausted to respond. He knows the hell that the detox will bring, has failed her before and spent sleepless nights wracked with nausea as every part of him screams out for the missing drug. Tonight will just be more of the same.

When he settles down, stretches out on his traveling cot and stares up at the stars, knowing the sun will rise in just a few hours and hoping he will be unconscious before he can see it, brimming with the life and heat of something he’d tried so hard to kill, the very air hurts him. The rough fabric of his clothing catches on his skin, drags and clings until he feels ensnared, like he is caught in countless hooks, digging deeper and deeper until it is part of him. Even breathing hurts, the late-night air chilled and scratching his lungs and lips and tongue with ice shards at every inhale. 

Everything is vivid and painfully real yet instead of trying to push away the excess sensations, he focuses on them. He clings to the pain because somehow all the aching, all the pure excruciating reality that steals away any chance of rest, is nothing in comparison to the imagined pressure of Eva’s throat in his hands. 

…

Morning comes, flushed and alive, and Charon stands. He doesn’t know if he slept, drifted in and out of himself, fever sensitive until dawn but he rises anyway. The withdrawal will only get worse as the day goes on so he paces, tries not to think about anything but the banal chores that come with packing up after a short night. 

Lo and Samson soon join him but Jess stays in her tent well into the day. She has grown listless and withdrawn after all the deaths, sometimes joining the others in conversation but often hiding away, almost as quiet as David and Lusk once were. Charon has stumbled onto her countless times with a box of mentats in her hand, staring into nothing, pupils blown huge and dark. She now keeps her tent further from the rest, this time tucked away in a small grove of trees around the bend of the mountain, the branches working as makeshift poles to hold up her faded canvas roof. 

They don’t bother waking her, assuming she’s withdrawn into her mind, dipping into the drug she used to limit in an attempt to focus on something other than her losses, until they finish packing up. The sun is high in the sky when Lo finally loses patience, tugging apart the quick makeshift tent with one sharp jerk.

Jess is inside, still staring at nothing, her throat a mess of deep oozing red. Dark bruises stain her mouth and chin, almost solid enough to trace the fingers that trapped her final scream inside her before it was unable to pass the deep slashes littering her throat. Lo shrieks, a sound more filled with fury then remorse and, behind him, he can hear Samson’s breathing speed up, the heavy shuddering gasps of someone overcome with anger. Charon just looks away.

It was clearly a messy death and he has to fight to hide the remorse the image brings him, not for Jess’s suffering, but for the obvious desperation of the killer. Eva isn’t vicious, doesn’t enjoy inflicting pain, but the slices are ragged, savage. She must have been hurried, pressed for time and scared of discovery. The thought of her, frantically clamping her hand over Jess’s mouth, fighting to even out the numbers, to save him, makes something in his chest ache. 

She is just one person, trying to rescue someone she can’t even count on, someone who might even be one of her attackers but she’s still managing to balance the odds. Their little group has been knocked down another number. No longer the five she mentioned, just three. 

Three left and Charon flexes his fingers, tries not to picture what his orders will force him to do.

Three left and, hopefully, only two more to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you hear the zombie-esq groan as I rise from the grave? :P
> 
> So we get a hint at what kept Eva away for so long, a lot more suffering and angst (but this story is about a undying enslaved ghoul so you're probably not surprised), and two more obstacles out of the way! Hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for sticking with me!


	27. Just one mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments after they discover Jess's body.

Lo’s eyes are wild as she crouches beside Jess’ corpse. She curls over her, shoulders hunched. Silent. 

Samson is still overwhelmed with anger. His breath is ragged, forced air through his nostrils as he tries to stay calm. His fingers twitch, clench into fists, and then burst apart, like he’s trying to release some pressure just by motion alone. He pulls out a dose of med-x, eyes wild enough that Charon knows the next drug in his hand will be psycho. He’s readying the needle, the silver tip pressing into skin riddled with the gang’s signature scar when Lo screams. 

She reels back and slams her fists against Jess’s cot. Most of the body is hidden by Lo but he can still see Jess’s limp hand jump with each strike. 

“WHO” 

Lo’s voice is loud enough to break, words scratchy and raw in an instant. 

“DID”

Her aim is erratic, fists beating into rock as violently as when they only strike cloth. She doesn’t seem to notice when she first hits the body. 

“THIS?” 

Something cracks and Lo stops, hands poised just above Jess’s battered ribcage. Charon looks for horror, disgust and he thinks he might see a flicker of the emotions before rage clamps down again. When Lo stands, her entire body is trembling, anger ripping through her visibly. 

She turns and Charon knows she’s gone. The Lo he’s lived with, the one he’s learned how to handle, has vanished. Her ego, her showmanship has been burned away. The creature left behind is nothing but hatred. She is pure, unbridled, fury. 

Her fingertips are dripping a slow, steady stream of red. The droplets hit the dusty ground, soaking into the earth like the very wasteland wants to eat her alive. Lo is a trapped beast, cornered and weakened by a hunter she can’t seem to evade. Charon has seen this reaction before, has fought humans and monsters alike until they’ve lost any sight of escape. They can see their own death, rushing in for them no matter what they’ve tried. It’s the reaction of last chances, of lost hope. It’s panic. 

Lo has been cornered and now she will do anything in her power to get out. 

“Kill it.” She looks at Charon and he barely sees any recognition. If anything, he is a weapon but one she isn’t thinking straight enough to use correctly. “Find it and kill it.” One moment, she’s still and then she rushes him, hand snapping back just before it can close around his throat. 

“All of this. All of it started when you showed up.” Her hand is close enough that Charon can see her knuckles go white as she forces her hand shut, can hear the three sharp snaps as her fingers pop from the pressure. 

“This is _your _fault.” She spits the words through her teeth, jaw tight. A vein swells in her brow, a tendon in her neck bulges from the effort it’s taking her to not attack him.__

__They both have forgotten Samson in the moment so when he steps forward, the surprise manages to break a bit of the tension. Charon thinks he might say something, ask for his own orders, but instead Samson just turns and punches Charon hard in the gut. It seems that he agrees with Lo’s conclusion._ _

__“You fucking,” Samson is cut off when Lo barrels into his chest. They go sprawling in the dirt, a mess of limbs, until Lo fights her way to the top. She sits on Samson’s chest, holding him down with one hand as she begins to beat him, her already bloodied hand growing darker quickly with each new strike._ _

__“This is_ my _ weapon!” 

Samson is struggling but Lo’s grip on his windpipe is iron tight and his strength is fading fast. 

“This is _my_ slave!” 

Charon steps back at the force of her words, the sheer possession in her tone. It crawls down his back, the slick chill of horror even though he thought he was well aware of the circumstances before now. No one has ever coveted him so much. He has gone from a lucky find to a cursed treasure but it seems it has somehow made Lo cling on tighter, determined to win, to make it all work out the way she expected. 

Samson’s protests have faded into ragged gasping but Lo’s attack has yet to lose its force. 

“If I want him dead, he dies by _my _hand!”__

__It might be fear driving her actions but it’s seething blood lust that paints her face when she finally relents and steps away from her victim. What was once faint stains of red on her knuckles are now bright swaths of blood splattered nearly to her wrist. Charon stares at her now limp hands as she approaches. He can’t look away, doesn’t want to. It’s better to focus on the weapons then the man they were used on. Just from the sound of his breathing, he knows it would be something a med-x dose could do nothing to erase._ _

__“You’re coming with me.” She is the same height as him, made evident by the heat of her breath on his face. Lo stares him down, close enough to strike. Something akin to panic begins to build in his chest. If he could crack his forehead into her nose, try to daze her with the pain, if she would just fucking hurt him, he could do something. One strike and he would be free to fight back._ _

__He doesn’t know his chances, has barely even considered escape for three months, and suddenly all these ideas are flashing through his mind, ways to subdue her, to get an upper hand. A tiny muscle flutters just below her left eye and he steadies himself, wanting to recover quickly after her initial strike, but she does nothing but look away, eyes shifting frantically over empty landscape, searching for hidden enemies._ _

__“Follow me.” She whispers it and somehow that’s when it hits him how far gone she actually is. No one is nearby, any possible hiding places are far enough away that a normal voice wouldn’t carry and the order isn’t even something that could help an attacker. Some paranoia is logical, someone has been hunting her for months and succeeding, but she looks around like the very trees want her dead._ _

__She stalks to her tent, tense as an animal on the run, and slips inside. When she emerges moments later, it’s with an overload of weapons, her usual gun, a pistol strapped to her belt, the sheath of what he knows to be a long, horribly sharp knife._ _

__He has seen it used on others, knows how quickly skin gives beneath the blade, and soon he might know what it feels like as well. Charon steels himself. This has been long coming. He stares her down, refusing to show any weakness. The med-x is still strong in his veins, she could do a lot of damage before the pain would slow him down, but again she just walks away, not even glancing in his direction before she begins to disappear into the brush. She made her order. Even if it ends with his death, she knows there is nothing for him to do but follow._ _

__Charon spares a glance at Samson before he leaves. The large man is battered beyond recognition, one eye swollen shut, nose clearly broken, but it’s not enough to incapacitate him. He should be able to move, to find a stimpak and heal his wounds, but it seems that shock has frozen him in place. The entire time he has known Lo, Charon has never seen her mad rages directed at one of her own. It isn’t pain but betrayal that’s keeping Samson down. His leader, his infallible messiah, has thrown him away._ _

__He almost expects a reaction from Samson when their eyes meet. Some words of hate or misery. A curse hissed like acid between split lips but there’s nothing. One bloodshot eye follows his motion but there is no other reaction. Charon walks away, leaving Samson where he lays, wheezing faintly in the dust._ _

__…_ _

__Lo leads him away into the tree line, weaving around thick trunks and through half dead foliage in an attempt to lose their pursuer. The plants catch on her skin as she passes, leaving faint scratches and little dots of blood in their wake, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Charon can’t decide if it’s from a secret dose of med-x taken in the tent or just the frenzied panic dulling her senses. When a particularly strong branch catches at her clothes, she rips away from it like it’s an attacker, watching the swinging brush like it has a mind of its own._ _

__When they break the tree line, Lo skirts along the rock face, back to the wall and gun raised. Charon follows, hands loosely on his own weapon. He’s been ordered to kill their attacker so he can’t drop his guard completely but there’s no need to defend himself either. Eva won’t hurt him. Charon shifts his grip on the barrel of his gun and wishes he could say the same._ _

__The walls are pocketed with holes, some small enough to be nothing but a small indentation in the stone but eventually they find something larger, a sizable break in the hillside that leads them into a cave big enough to support a small clan of deathclaws. If they were still hunting for the runaway wastelanders, this would have been one of the first places to search but now it’s just a place to hide. Together, they explore the area but other than a small pile of old bones, the cave is empty. They drop their packs and face the entrance to wait._ _

__After ten minutes of nothing but silence, the air split only by the faint echoing whisper of wind caught in the stone, Lo begins to pace. The agitated energy that drove them to this hideaway is overflowing, leaving her hands shaking and her feet moving faster and faster along the stone floor. Finally, she twists, turns her gun in Charon’s direction, eyes narrowed down to slits._ _

__“You are going to answer me honestly.” The barrel is pointed at his chest and he wonders if she’ll actually use it. They both know she doesn’t need to threaten him to get him to obey but her eyes are wild and he isn’t certain how much grip she has left on reality._ _

__“Do you know who’s following us?” Behind her, a shadow shifts over the rock and disappears. Charon nods, deliberately looking away when Lo’s eyes go wild with anger. She repositions her weapon, steps closer, looming over him like a predator about to strike, her muscles taught, just on the edge of breaking._ _

__“Who is following us?” The question hisses out of her, nothing but venom on a sharp exhalation._ _

__“Eva.”_ _

__Somewhere in the cave, something slips, sending a few pebbles skittering across stone. Lo whirls around, gun raised but nothing moves. She doesn’t look at him when she speaks again but he can see the tension in her shoulders, knows that she’s starting to realize what his answer will be._ _

__“Who is Eva?” Her voice is almost emotionless, deadened with the dawning realization of what she’s done. Of who’s fault it is that her gang was torn apart._ _

__“My old employer.”_ _

__It feels strange calling her that, even now. She’s not just an ex employer, she’s _Eva _. There isn’t a word for who she is to him now, nothing so simple as owner or friend or even lover. She is something entirely her own, someone he feels inescapably tied to.  
She’s an ingrained part of his life now, even if this is the end. ___ _

____He told her he would be there until she died, essentially promised to be with her forever. Charon swallows, feeling the revelation swelling up in his chest. Maybe the term he’s looking for is ‘family.’_ _ _ _

____He flexes his hands around the grip of his gun, surprised that even as the med-x fades, he doesn’t feel compelled to push the feeling away._ _ _ _

____Lo had gone still at his response but now she turns her head, stares at him with dead eyes. Her voice is just as flat._ _ _ _

____“She was dead when I found you.” Her tone is empty but he can feel the rage just beneath the surface, ready to boil up and over with the slightest touch._ _ _ _

____“I took your contract off her corpse! She was DEAD!” Lo finally turns, chest heaving as she screams. Her words echo off the cave walls, ricocheting the disbelief and fury until the air is thick with it._ _ _ _

____Her shout is loud as it repeats but not as loud as the gunshot that follows._ _ _ _

____The bullet hits Lo’s shoulder, shoving it forward with the sheer force of impact, ripping her body sideways and throwing her off balance. She stumbles but doesn’t fall and it’s then that Charon is certain it was the med-x numbing her to the branches ripping at her skin earlier._ _ _ _

____Behind her, he sees Eva duck away behind a large extension in the cave wall. Charon raises his gun and fires just as she disappears completely. The shot sparks uselessly against the stone floor but it stills drives home what he might do to her today. There was no hesitation, nothing in the attack he could control. Eva is in just as much danger from him as she is from Lo._ _ _ _

____Right now, he is nothing but another enemy._ _ _ _

____Lo regroups, stabbing a stimpak into her thigh as she runs towards Eva’s hiding place, oblivious to the bullet that could still be lodged in her shoulder. Charon follows close behind, nausea blooming in his gut as he tries to still each step. He’s scared to fight the order too much, not wanting to trigger the blind obeying panic that can build up during fights. If it comes to it, he doesn’t want to be so far gone when he strikes Eva down. He needs to know what he’s doing, owes it to her to at least fully feel the horror of what he’s done._ _ _ _

____Charon stumbles slightly but keeps moving. It’s a poor conciliation._ _ _ _

____Lo reaches Eva’s hiding place a second before he does. For a beat, they see nothing, and then Eva throws herself out of the shadows, crashing into Lo hard enough to take her down._ _ _ _

____They fall, a perfect mirror of the morning’s struggle and, like the morning, Lo ends up on top. She slams her hands down on Eva’s wrists, pulling her arms above her head as she thrashes beneath her._ _ _ _

____Lo is stronger, larger. Charon should have known how quickly she would subdue Eva in a physical fight but it is still a shock to see her trapped so quickly. She fights to escape, body writhing, legs kicking viciously but it’s no use. She’s locked down as surely as if Lo’s grip was made of iron._ _ _ _

____At first Lo doesn’t move. She stares down at her attacker trapped beneath her with her eyes wide, mouth open in a breathless grin. Slowly, she grinds Eva’s hands against the rough stone floor of the cave, grin widening when the rock starts to grow wet with blood._ _ _ _

____“I caught you.” Lo’s voice is taunting, almost playful. Eva grimaces, starts to struggle anew, and Lo laughs. Her pleasure hits the walls and repels back, surrounding them with the sound of her victory.  
Finally, when her victim goes limp in her hands, Lo stands, pulling her captive along with her. With the moment of freedom, Eva tries to bolt, tugging desperately at Lo’s grip with no effect. _ _ _ _

____“Hold her still.”_ _ _ _

____She shoves Eva towards him and he can do nothing but catch her, clutching her tight to his chest before she can try to escape. He’s done this before, held her before, and the realization of it strikes away any words he might have had for his would-be rescuer. It feels familiar, having her in his arms, her warmth, her fluttering heartbeat. She twists until her back is pressed against his chest and, on a wild impulse, he presses a faint kiss into her hair._ _ _ _

____It would almost be a tender moment if they were alone._ _ _ _

____Lo paces back and forth before them, the knife at her belt drawn, smile sharp enough to cut on its own._ _ _ _

____“This is almost anticlimactic, isn’t it?” She twists the blade in her hands, eyeing Eva like she’s a meal worth savoring._ _ _ _

____“All these months and you’re just a weakling.” Lo leans in close and laughs when Eva tries to lunge for her. Charon’s hold on her tightens and he wonders if he’s ever hated himself more. Lo steps away again and Eva goes limp._ _ _ _

____“I’m going to cut you into a thousand different pieces.” His owner fingers the knife in her hand, presses the tip until the faintest drop of blood bubbles up from her skin. She winks, all the fear, all the panic gone completely. She has won and now she’s ready to enjoy the victory._ _ _ _

____“And Charon is going to hold you together so I can cut you into a thousand more.”_ _ _ _

____The entire time, Eva has been silent, still unless she’s trying to fight but now she stiffens. When Lo starts to approach again, Eva turns her head away, pressing her cheek into his chest. Her breathing is ragged but her words come out clear._ _ _ _

____“I’m sorry, Charon.” She brings her hands up, not to fight him but just to clutch at his arms around her for comfort. He’s going to hold her while she dies. Every part of him wants to let her go, throw her away from Lo’s reach but he can’t. All he can do is gently stroke her arms, rubbing circles with his thumbs in a way he once hoped was comforting._ _ _ _

____Lo takes her time picking the first spot to cut, finally settling on the fleshy upper half of her arm. She pauses with the tip just an inch away from her skin, smile widening at the first moment of revenge and then rips the knife away and swings, gathering momentum for a thick, ragged cut._ _ _ _

____Right before the knife strikes, Eva’s grip on his arms tightens and she twists, throwing herself to the side just enough to make the attack miss its target, slipping past her unharmed and instead digging deep, deep into Charon’s arm._ _ _ _

____The contract breaks._ _ _ _

____Every order falls away, every layering command Lo has issued becomes invalid, erased the moment her knife cuts his skin. He knows he isn’t free, can still feel the tug of the contract, suddenly in want of a new owner, but it’s enough. It’s the closest he will ever get to free will and he will take it._ _ _ _

____The realization of what happened hits Lo just as Charon does. Eva staggers away, laughing with more shocked success then pleasure but Charon is barely aware of her retreat. He is a captive animal released, turning on his trainer with all the savagery she ever inflicted on him. Once more, Lo falls, this time wrapped up in her slave, nails clawing at his skin, hands desperately reaching for the knife knocked from her hand. It lays several feet away, stained deep red with her own mistake._ _ _ _

____There are no parting words, no final burst of hatred or revenge but for Lo’s eyes fixing on his as he catches her by the shoulders and slams her head once, twice against the cave floor. The sickening crack of her skull echoes long after her last breath fades._ _ _ _

____…_ _ _ _

____Charon kneels over Lo’s body for what feels like hours, staring down at what he knows is nothing but meat and bone but what still looks like the last four months of a nightmare come alive. He jumps when a hand presses down on his shoulder and turns to see Eva kneeling beside him, a thick purple bruise already beginning to bloom across her jaw._ _ _ _

____She says nothing, just keeps one firm grip on his shoulder and leans forward, slipping her hand into Lo’s breast pocket and withdrawing a familiar scrap of yellowed parchment. The blurry wandering impulse fades as her ownership sets in and with it, the tension he’s been holding since the day he thought she died. He sighs. It’s over. Lo is dead and Eva isn’t._ _ _ _

____On impulse, he turns to Eva, cups her bruised cheek as lightly as he can and kisses her._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAHH! So it comes to an end! (Not the story, just Lo's section of it.) I hope you liked it and, while it was fun, damn am I excited to stop writing violence for a moment! Never typing the word blood again! (You and I both know that's not true, it's Fallout after all but still.) Time for some healing. 
> 
> I loved writing this whole section but I've still got a lot I want to tell so hopefully you're not sick of this story and ready for it to end. :P Thank you for being the most amazing readers ever. All of your sweet, insightful, encouraging comments constantly blow me away and keep me typing. Thank you <3


	28. A Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva and Charon try to move on.

They’ve been walking for hours in silence. The distance Charon first became aware of the day Eva returned from her ill-fated rescue mission is larger than he’s ever felt it before. The months apart have taken their toll. She watches him, glancing over every few minutes, as if she’s checking to make sure he’s really there. More often than not, her eyes catch his own. Words may be scarce but it’s not from lack of interest. 

They are both hyper aware. 

Yet each time Charon tries to speak, something stops him. He is standing on a ledge, staring across the chasm, yearning to reach the other side but too lost to find a path. 

The sun has set and the air is finally reflecting it, chilled enough that it nips at his overly sensitive skin. Instinctively, he wants to rub it away but more motion, skin on skin contact, would only make it worse. The med-x has long faded and everything aches. He can do nothing but bare it. 

Eva walks slightly ahead of him, the order deliberately orchestrated by Charon. He has had practice in hiding pain, renewed yet again under Lo’s ownership, but it has been a long time since he’s been this sober. The occasional misstep, a too strong breeze, it strikes hard enough to pull out a reaction. Charon can’t hold back completely but he can at least hide it from everyone but himself. Eva’s searching looks are intense but furtive, fleeting enough that he can fix a closed expression back in place for the moments she might see something more. 

He doesn’t even know where she’s been, how she survived. The addiction he knows he will have to address is too much to share so soon. 

Home is at least a week away, if not more. Eva has told him that much at least but she fumbled at the term, stumbling across the term ‘home’ like she isn’t certain that’s the correct name for it anymore. She won’t maintain eye contact, even during the few awkward exchanges they’ve shared and it scares him. He knows she is driven by her sense of right and wrong, her moral code the only thing keeping her alive at points. Did she come for him because she felt obligated to? Was it too much trouble to risk this happening again? 

Charon eyes Eva’s left hand, the way she keeps flexing the three stubs of her missing fingers like she’s still searching for the lost sensation. She was mutilated, lost a part of herself in her attempt to find him. He would understand if the fear of losing more made her pull away. 

The contract, securely tucked away in her breast pocket, pulls tight between them. He can feel it as surely as he feels the pebbles beneath his heel dig hard into his skin. It tugs at him, the usual sensation heightened from a string to a noose tied tight around his neck. 

He wants to follow her but everything is multiplied, even a feeling he has had lifetimes to grow accustomed to. The rope is woven from razor wires, digging deep even as he freely obeys. 

As they walk, Eva pauses to pick up a broken branch, dragging the tip along in the dirt. Her shoulders are tense and he can almost see her nervous habits, the way she bits her lip, too roughly to be anything but painful, and the harsh twist of her hand fisting in the fabric of her shirt. 

For the first time, he wonders if the tick developed recently, holding on to anything she can find after she’s lost so much. Her home, her community, her father, her purpose. Charon wants to reach out for her, give her something solid to hold onto, something more than her own loose grip on herself, but a sharp burst of wind skims along his arm and he’s forced to bite back a sound of pain. Luckily, Eva doesn’t notice the brief gesture. His hand falls back to his side. 

The tip of the stick in Eva’s hand scratches across a barely exposed rock, beaten down into the dirt after years of fallout twisted the environment. The bombs tore the world apart, created new valleys, deep enough that the original ground now towers above them, leaving behind manmade mountains that jut up into the sky, sharp and unnatural. Charon nearly winces at the sound but he still strains to hear Eva when she speaks. 

“Do you…” He can’t see her face but he can hear it, the time apart failing to erase his memory of her mannerisms and he can hear her uncertainty in her low hesitation. He knows the voice she uses when she’s trying to stay quiet, stealthy in the open and this isn’t it. It’s the way she speaks when she’s scared, when a worry finally spills from her mind to her lips. 

“Do you want me to find someone else to hold your contract?” 

Charon nearly stumbles. What? Eva sounds pained but she doesn’t look back, just clenches her hand a little tighter around her stick, digs the tip into the dirt a little deeper. Five more steps and the wood snaps, a sharp burst of sound in the silence that follows her question. 

He finally gets a response out, though the words tumble out of him, jumbled in his confusion. 

“Do I…” He swallows, reshapes the sentence into something whole. “Do you?” 

Eva’s footsteps falter, slow and then come to a complete stop. She doesn’t look back.

“I understand if you do.” Emotion shimmers just below the surface but only enough to give a slight timbre of “something” to her voice. It could be sadness or anger, even confusion. All he is certain of is that it’s there. 

“It took so _fucking_ long for me to find you.” The strain bleeds through. Frustration. Bitterness. Guilt. 

“She had you, I let her have you, for four months. That monster owned you for _months._ ” Eva raises the stick from the dirt, bends it until it snaps, drops the smaller half, and then snaps it again. 

“I didn’t even find you for a month and then I lost you! I couldn’t save you!” As her tone grows harsher, self-hatred and the months of failure and frustration lifting into a near shout, it’s a struggle not to step away. His ears ring, an instant headache stabbing into his temples with each syllable. 

His response comes out harsher then he means it to. 

“No.” Charon can’t resist lifting a hand to his head, rubbing at the pain and instantly regretting it. 

“You did find me. I’m right here and I’m alive.” He doesn’t mention the lingering fear in the back of his mind, that she rescued him but not the person she was trying to save, that the one she wanted is long dead. 

Eva finally turns. She’s crying, though he’s unsurprised. She has always shown emotions like a vault dweller, too raw and far too visible. What does surprise him is the accusation in her eyes. While her tone was sad, her face is twisted in fury. 

“You think I don’t know? I’ve been following you for weeks now, Charon.” 

The broken branch is splinters in her grasp, wood cracking and twisting as she channels her emotions into her hands. Her posture is tall, aggressive and accusatory. 

“I know what she made you do. I know what she gave you.” Eva’s pale face has gone red with anger, cheeks and chest flushed as her breathing grows labored. “You think I don’t see you trying not to show it?” Her voice drops as her own words trigger the realization.

“I know everything is hurting you. I know you’re withdrawing and you’re trying to hide it.” Even as a harsh whisper, it stings. Though if it’s physical or emotional, Charon isn’t certain. 

“I could have protected you from this but I fucked up. I was stupid and reckless and now you have to pay for it.” She lifts her left hand, waving the brutal injury in his face.

“I thought I could get you the same damn night. I was so relieved and excited and stupid, so stupid!” 

They are standing out in the open, nothing but sand and dry brush in sight. The evening light has bled into their surroundings, tinging everything a violent red. The angry blush in Eva’s cheeks looks almost bloody in the rusty glow. 

“I thought I had fixed it, found you and fixed this stupid mistake. It was all my fault and you were gone.” She takes a sudden turn, anger twisting back into misery and she crumbles like she’s been shot, hands dropping the stick in favor of clenching tightly in her hair. Eva drops to her knees, still speaking, words directed into the dirt. 

“I brought us to RobCo. You hated how reckless I was for Moira. You never would have gone there if it wasn’t for me.” Hair fisted tight enough to pull at her skin, stretched flesh so taught it squeezes two more tears from her bloodshot eyes, Eva looks to him. 

“I did this to you.” 

Charon doesn’t know what to say. Things begin to click into place. The mysterious sniper in the grove now has an identity and he aches as badly as she does at how close she came. The guilt twisting her features hurts to look at but still a small part of him is angry, hurt that she came so close so early on. The things he could have avoided, the atrocities he had to commit. 

It isn’t fair or correct but a sliver of the betrayal she’s suffering for slides sharp as glass into his heart. 

He drops down to his knees anyway, not bothering to hide the flash of pain when he makes contact with the hard ground. Eva has crumpled, fists now pressed into the dirt, back hunched and eyes lowered. A perfect picture of suffering. 

“Eva.” Charon struggles, reaching for her across the bottomless canyon between them. He was never good with words, bit back any response that wasn’t entirely necessary and what skill he found living with Eva is gone again, burned away by the med-x he let deaden his senses. 

“No one else would have come.” He reaches for her, lets his hands hover just above hers. Now that he’s aware that she knows, he doesn’t need to hide it, doesn’t need to explain. 

“No one else would risk themselves to protect me, only you.” Tentatively, he traces a finger just over her left hand, phantom touch rising and falling over the rough scars. “And you’ve done it more than once.” She sniffs, nose red and runny, lips still pulled thin and tight in a grimace of pain. 

“Even more than that,” He breathes out slowly, the shard of hurt dissolving as his own words convince him. “You care. You…it matters to you…what happens to me.” The last sentence stumbles out of him, the realization of the truth of his words hitting that raw, open part of him that strange, confusing Eva had managed to pry open. The part he’d spent four long months pushing shut. It stings, like fresh skin exposed to an icy breeze but for the first time in a long while, it’s a good pain. 

“What even…” His thoughts wander, no longer fixated on the reveal of her first visit but on the vagueness of what made her lose the trail again. The three stumps of her fingers dig into the dirt, torn away at the knuckle and bulbous where a very old stimpak knitted the flesh back together. 

“It was a yao gui.” She laughs shakily, the excess of emotion fading as their first real conversation comes to a close. 

“I never wanted to see that much of the inside of my stomach. The fingers were almost an afterthought.” Eva still hasn’t looked at him, though he can tell she’s focused on the short distance between his hand and hers. She is so physical and he understands now why she hasn’t expressed that side of her, has limited her reassurances to sight alone. Small rocks dig into his knees, sharp as shrapnel, and the rapidly cooling night air pushes ice shards into his lungs. Every single part of him screams out for med-x, for relief from this constant bombardment of every sense but the last ghoul strength vial of med-x is still tucked away in the coat of a fresh corpse so he does something else entirely.

Carefully, as gentle as if he was pressing down on a blade instead of soft skin, Charon lowers his hand onto hers. Eva’s whole body tenses, the limp slump of grief gone rigid with surprise. He hears her sharp exhale, feels the stumps of her fingers flex slightly under his palm. A moment of silence and then, just as carefully, she returns the gesture. Her right hand closes around his, squeezing lightly. 

The cavernous pit between them is still there, the lost familiarity still confusing and jumbled but Eva is here now, fingers light as a feather on his skin. It’s a start, the smallest step, hard in how far back they’ve been set, but it’s still there. It’s real.   
With the tilt of her head, still unable to meet his eyes just yet, Charon can only just see the slightest crook of a smile. She holds onto him, fingers closing just a bit tighter and oh god.

It _hurts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is seven months into the relationship too early to say I love you? Because I love you guys so much! Thank you for sticking with me and when I took way too long to update, thank you for giving me an extra push. I wrote this chapter so many times in so many different ways and I was almost giving up. Thank you <3 I hope it was at least partially worth the wait and know that without you being the most amazing readers ever, this story probably would of ended a long time ago.


	29. Withdrawal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon runs out of med-x.

Charon has one almost normal night with Eva before the withdrawal sets in. 

They sit by the fire in the evening and, while he can’t bare the heat of her or the flames, he can still see her, watch her, the way the embers burn a color into her skin and the way the darkness bleeds it away. The conversation is still stunted, slow and clumsy. 

The four months between them still clings to every word, too tainted to see past but they try, reaching blindly through the darkness. It’s disconcerting, dizzy as they both teeter on the edge but each success is a victory. Each moment they connect through the distance, just a dizzying brush of normalcy, bursts bright through the fog.

The fire casts a small pool of light around them, a solitary island of warmth in the darkness. Outside, the wasteland lurks. Things prowl and people struggle to stay alive. Life fights tooth and nail to survive, cruel and desperate but for now, safe in this tiny world of light and companionship, they wait out the night.

Meat sizzles and spits as it roasts, slick and oily with skin that grows harsh and crisp as it cooks. Eva was the one who hunted tonight, roasting the molerat she lugged back to camp, clutching fistfuls of scraggly greens even as she clings to the kill thrown over her shoulder. 

They sit together and it feels familiar. 

Now, as Charon empties the remains of last night’s meal into the dirt, reality comes crashing back. Hard. 

It’s been three days since the last of the med-x’s effects faded and, as he stumbles back to his cot, his whole body suffers for it. He tries to lower himself down but halfway through his knees give out, too weak and dehydrated to hold his own weight. He hits the ground with a thump, the rough fabric beneath him harsh as sandpaper on his feverish skin. 

He knows it will end, that withdrawal is temporary but he also knows that with suffering comes a certain distortion of time. It will end but he doesn’t know when, can barely separate the passage of seconds and hours. There’s nothing he can do but wait. 

A cool cloth presses against his forehead and he would tear it away if he had the strength to. Eva has set them up beside a curved boulder, the best she could find in a hurry, urging him forward step by step as his body rebelled against every slight stimuli. In the shade, the water isn’t too chilled but just enough to feel like ice to a raging fever. A single droplet escapes the rag and drips down his face, slipping past his temple and burning the sensitive skin behind his mangled ear. 

Eva is crouched beside him, hands in constant motion as if she’s searching the very air for a way to help. They flutter close to his cheek, his hands, before she pulls away. Physical comfort is impossible but he’s too sick to distract with words. Charon watches her gestures in a fog, fingers fading and distorting into a nervous blur. The icy slick of water on his skin has sunk in now, the chill deep in his flesh, spreading sharp crystals of cold out and into a throbbing migraine. 

Above him, the sky is fading, dark clouds flecked with orange distort into a low ceiling, the heavy beams of wood hiding everything but the faintest embers as the floor above him continues to burn. His heart is pounding in his chest, vision distorted with pinpricks of light and dark as another wave of pain makes him feel like his skull is about to burst apart from the pressure. He doesn’t know how he got here, curled in the corner of this ancient cellar, surrounded by the muted shapes of old furniture draped in dusty white cloth. His hand is clutched to his chest, fisted tight around something important, so important. 

Carefully, trying to focus even as his world splits apart into tiny crystalized bursts of light, he uncurls his hand. Small flakes of dark red fall from his fingers and there’s nothing there, nothing obviously meaningful, just a folded piece of bright white paper, slightly crinkled from his grip but otherwise unharmed. Fresh. New. 

Charon stares at it, his old self battling with this new unprecedented drive to protect the contract in his hand. A year ago he would have dropped it, left it to burn with the rest of this forgotten building but now it is important, undeniably so. Above him, a beam cracks from the heat, showering bright sparks down into the murky half-darkness of the basement. He needs to leave, has to get out before this building comes down around him but he can’t look away from his precious new possession. 

It’s the first time he’s ever touched it. 

The body beside him has grown cold and god, he’s never felt a pain so strong as the punishment of watching his employer die. The man’s chest is bandaged, carefully at first and then desperately, the gauze almost stuffed into the wound by the end of it as Charon futilely tried to staunch the bleeding. 

His commander never had a chance. It was only an hour after they left the base, separated from the rest of the troop in the madness, when he was shot. 

For the vast majority of the population, there was no preventing the apocalypse. People watched helplessly as the bombs fell. They couldn’t fight a bomb, couldn’t shoot it, couldn’t kill it. There was nothing to do but let the world be torn apart, watch buildings crumble and the air stain dark with poison. 

Everything was ending and there was nothing they could do to stop it. 

In the chaos, people found a single outlet for their fear and anger. They couldn’t halt the disaster but they could kill the ones to blame. Almost immediately it was decided upon. Anything military was shot on sight. 

A bullet would do nothing to the nightmares falling from the sky but at least it could still pierce skin. 

Charon had tried to stick to protocol when his commander was wounded but nothing made sense anymore. It was as if in the few minutes it took for the bombs to drop, reality had died and been reborn into something new. Something he didn’t know the rules for, an existence he had no training in. In the end, he just threw his leader over his shoulder and ran. It was all he could think to do. 

Now here he is, holding his own freedom in his hands, realizing for the first time the extra impulses they built into him, and falling apart. He’s not free. This isn’t his. He clutches the paper and shakes, trying to rip it, wanting to burn it. His commander is dead at his feet but he wants to throttle him, scream at him, demand answers. Why didn’t it break when he died, who is he meant to listen to now? 

The contract might as well be made of steel for all his trembling fingers can do to it. Charon has never hated an object with more passion, never been gripped with more blind panic. He has fought and trained for years, seen horrifying things no ordinary soldier would ever be subjected to, but here with the contract’s true ending revealed, here is his breaking point. 

When he comes back into his own mind, he is outside, standing beside the last smoldering embers of his would be shelter. The contract is still clutched tightly in his fist but something else is taking over. A blinding grayness that commands him to just exist, wander until another military official takes over. 

He looks out at the ruins of the city.

The sky is dark, the light replaced by the glow of fires still burning, twisting the color of the world until it is demonic, the air hazy and red. Something in him begins to fade. The faces he knows by heart, his brother, his parents, they begin to blur and distort. 

His orders, his training is suddenly sharper and he can feel the paper crumpled in his palm, poisoning him with commands he didn’t even know were there. Is this to distract him? A better soldier in extreme crisis shouldn’t be concerned about his personal life, his loved ones. He should just fight, just obey. 

A low snarl echoes in the fresh ruins, a deep horrific sound he has come to know from training exercises and that one horribly long corridor in the deepest recesses of the base. Charon inhales, sucks in the acrid smoke and tastes the air of a new world. He needs to move, needs to find somewhere to hide and regroup. It isn’t safe out in the open anymore. Nearby, something else hisses. It could be broken pipes dripping onto over heated metal, oil sizzling on the burning street but he can’t be sure. Charon shifts, turns away from his Hell tinted city. 

After all, he isn’t the only monster his military created. 

…

Other memories fade in and out as the night goes on. Things he didn’t know, could never recall but instantly feel real, feel familiar, come sliding back into his mind like he never lost them. One moment, he is staring up at Eva’s drawn face, the next he is looting still smoldering buildings. The air burns his skin. A soft rain has started and he wonders if Eva knows it’s made of acid. Once more, he drifts away. 

It’s three days after the bombs and his skin is rotting. He doesn’t know what’s happening, wonders if it’s a sudden infection from a wound he sustained two days ago, slicing his hand on a shard of metal hidden in the debris. It’s hard to function, almost any action is damaging, chunks of flesh sluicing off at the slightest pressure. But he’s never seen an infection this severe, never seen it spread so quickly. By day five he can no longer walk. 

It’s radiation sickness. He knows this now. He’s dying. Yesterday he had to flee something shambling and humanoid, dashing around a blown out doorframe, ripping flesh from his palms as he pulled himself through. Bullets have been hard to come by and whatever was chasing him Just. Wouldn’t. Die. It looked a little like his newly rotted arms and fear burrows in through the wandering gray polluting his mind, pulled from old flicks he used to sneak out to watch at the drive-in by his house, far too young and always a little more skittish on his way home.

Now he’s hiding away, retching up nothing but clear bile and staring down at his ruined hands. He’s scared to swallow, having bitten off a chunk of his own lip a few hours earlier. Yet still, his contract wants him to continue on, wants another commander and if not that, if his suspicions are right and most military is either long dead or long gone, then at least a leader, someone to follow. Charon hates it, hates the idea of orders as blindly as he once followed them. He thinks of the day he signed up for the military, the day he was promoted to something important, top secret. He remembers how proud he had been.

He retches again. 

…

Eva carefully wipes away the sweat beading in the hollow of his neck and Charon is two weeks into the end of the world, fighting off a scavenger whose hands are an iron grip around his throat. He’s just a civilian and his hold gives out the second Charon lands a solid shot, the sickening sound of the blow cracking something in the man’s chest just another ghoulish addition to his new life’s soundtrack. 

He takes the scavenger’s bag, willing the contract to take over, to erase any of his sense of self, enough to let the guilt fade. When he opens the satchel and finds nothing but a can of beans and a worn old coat, the contract can do nothing for him. He feels sick. Still, he doesn’t leave the clothing or the food behind. Charon hasn’t eaten today and with the ash still blocking out most of the sun, the air is achingly cold. 

…

Morning creeps up and Charon brings his hand to his face, trying to block out the soft pink light. His palm grazes the place where his nose used to be and he’s sitting alone in his latest hideaway, elbows propped on his knees, hunched over in the dusty attic room. It’s been months now and his cartilage is finally starting to go. 

He’s seen it happen to the others, the mindless killers that he’s starting to resemble more and more as of late. Generally, he tries to avoid them, creeping around broken buildings and through radiation wasted trees, not just to save on bullets and time but because looking at them is looking at his future. He wonders if his body will waste away like theirs do, muscles atrophying until they are half skeleton, half corpse or if that only starts once his mind goes. He hasn’t seen one that seems aware yet, nothing like himself, half rotted and still going, still falling to pieces, still getting worse.

Carefully he feels around his face, traces the new freshly hardening skin on his jaw. It’s like living in a body that isn’t his own. He still feels human but there’s nothing to confirm that belief anymore, nothing familiar but the general form beneath the decay. The bridge of his nose gives when he touches it. He’ll remember the sound for years, the crackling crunch so unique to cartilage. Such a light touch and there it goes.

The night that follows will fade much quicker than the other memories do and it is the last one he would have ever thought to want back. The feeling, that sickening sensation. Pulling at his body like clay, then tearing, doing in one night what would have taken months to complete. That night his body becomes a separate entity, something he can destroy without ramifications. It is just another broken down shelter, a trap he will never escape, a nightmare he still can’t believe is real. 

He leaves the next morning, his programmed-in pull drawing him ever onward, trying not to think about the dark place he let himself go to. From then on, he is more ghoul then human, the last strains of his humanity left behind, discarded on that old attic floor.

…

When he wakes again, something is different. The air is still harsh but no longer unbearable. His entire body is coated in sweat, a sure sign of his fever breaking. With a brief struggle, he manages to sit up. 

Eva is by his side, eyes shadowed but very much awake. She watches him wearily, one hand moving to hover carefully behind his back as the other holds out a dented can of water. After a moment he takes it, holds the cool metal and then drops it in favor of catching her hand. It’s been at least a day since he’s had anything to drink but right now it doesn’t matter. He needs to know. 

Her skin is warm and soft and barely hurts to touch, just the remnants of a fever sensitive ache at the contact. And it doesn’t matter, the pain is exquisite in comparison to that urge, that inescapable need to pull away, to escape. Eva’s whole body has gone rigid. 

“Are you…?” Her sentence fades as she watches him, intent gaze flickering between his face and their joined hands. 

Shifting on the cot, he lifts his other hand to cup her cheek, thrilling silently at the absence of pain along with the action. 

He knows Eva, could call her image to mind in seconds and, though he still can’t remember his brother’s face, he can remember his own. When she returns the gesture, face splitting into a helpless grin when he doesn’t pull away, her expression pulls the last of his identity into the present. She’s not looking at the lost soldier, his world freshly destroyed and his mind slowly fading. 

She’s looking at Charon, she’s looking at his scars and his lifetimes, and it’s the one she knows. Eva is watching the person she’s grown to care for with her last question hanging heavy between them. Is it over? 

Cupping her hand in both of his, he nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can never express how much you guys mean to me and I'm so sorry this took so long! You wouldn't believe how many drafts of this I wrote and then deleted but here it is! The next chapter! Painfully, excruciatingly late. :P 
> 
> I am constantly in awe that people are taking time out of their day to read this and your comments always send me over the edge. :) Thank you so much and see you next time!
> 
> (P.s. Just so everyone knows,I am NOT getting bored of this story whatsoever. A lot of stuff was happening the last few months so it's been hard to find the time but I still love this story and absolutely will NOT leave it unfinished.)


	30. Rivet City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon and Eva make their way back home.

The wasteland, even with all its brutality, can be eerily quiet at times. 

It is a bright day, air thick with the sheer heat baking down above Charon and Eva as they make their way back home. Everything is cast with harsh clarity, each stone and tuft of brush standing out like they have been individually painted into the landscape. It makes for a surreal journey, almost dreamlike in its precise but depthless views.

Charon is exhausted. Even with the worst of his withdrawal out of the way, the aftershock has left him weary, his stamina drained to a humiliating degree. Eva is aware of this, stopping often without prompt, taking charge in her usual quiet way. She hands him a can of water the moment they stop, so insistent on hydration it’s almost amusing. It’s obvious she’s had time around medical care, going through the usual basics absent mindedly as she charts their route. 

He takes the water and then the jerky and dried mutfruit without question, slumping back against the boulder Eva has chosen as their latest resting spot. The stone is still cool to the touch, shielded by its own shadow just enough to avoid the worst of the day’s heat. Turning his head just enough to press his cheek against the chilled rock, he watches Eva work on her pipboy as they rest. 

Her brows are pulled together in a combination of frustration and annoyance as she taps the button furthest to the left, the one he knows had started to stick months ago. On their way back to Megaton, the entire casing was coated in viscera when a bloatfly burst close enough to drench both her and the tech, leaving a residue that took days to entirely clean away. She still has the spotted scarring of a bloatfly larvae just above the pipboy’s band.

Charon follows the scars, counting each one he recognizes and each one he doesn’t. So many of them are new, too many of them he remembers causing. 

When she catches his eye and grins, it hits him that she no longer looks like a vault dweller. More than a year in the sun has finally changed her, tinting her skin into something that still isn’t a common hue but no longer looks sickly. Wide swatches of freckles have bloomed across her shoulders and arms, intermingling with her collection of scars until no part of her is untouched. The wasteland has left its mark. 

“You okay?” Eva’s voice breaking the silence just reinforces how quiet the day has been. He is still ragged from everything his body has been through, too intent on just matching Eva’s pace to focus on conversation and she has been surprisingly reserved, clearly lost in a thought she isn’t interested in sharing. 

Charon nods and she slides closer across the sandy ground, tucking into his side without another word. 

…

When they reach Rivet City, Eva immediately pulls closer. They’ve visited the breached aircraft carrier before, once only a week after she bought his contract and again several months later. It was the first time he saw her truly angry, shouting through the intercom when he was initially denied access. It had been irritating then, just another sign of her own false bleeding heart but now it’s just another thing to endear her, another time she fought for him. 

The bridge extends as Eva walks back from laying two cans of water beside a sleeping Carlos. It is another routine of hers, another gesture he initially misinterpreted. That first time, as they crossed the bridge together, she seemed agitated, hands clenched at her sides and shoulders stiff. He had thought it was regret at giving away an important supply but later that night, in the small room she rented for the two of them, she would turn to him, ghostly pale face bright with rage, as she explained what her father died for. 

Carlos is proof of an unjust world and even now, he can see the lingering pain of it flit across her face, still lost at how her family could sacrifice so much for such an imperfect result. 

…

They visit the marketplace first. Megaton isn’t too far from here but it’s enough of a walk to make replenishing their supplies necessary. 

Charon hates places like this. The crowd is thick enough to require maneuvering, proof that Rivet city is the largest settlement for miles, and the sheer numbers put him on edge. It’s easy to spot an attacker sprinting over a barren stretch of land or sneaking through a hollowed-out city. Here, anyone could be an enemy and with the constant ebb and flow of the crowd, it would be easy to stalk a target without being noticed. 

Eva eyes the room before taking off towards the general store. As she takes her first step into the marketplace, her hand closes around his, gentle enough to be rejected but firm enough to keep hold through the shifting masses. Their first time here, he would have been angry, even disgusted at the contact, but now he just returns her grip and slips with her into the crowd.

Slowly, they make their way through the throng. It’s an evening crowd, the last burst of traffic before the market closes for the night. It feels strange being in public and doing something so closely associated with romance but when they reach their destination and she doesn’t let go, just glances up at him with a conspiratorial grin, the feeling fades. They’re partners, the two of them against the world and this contact solidifies it. After everything, being here as strangers, fighting through the contract between them, being torn away and reuniting, it just feels right. 

Charon fades into the sensation as Eva negotiates prices. She runs warmer than he does and even with the scarring, her skin is exceptionally smooth against his. He rubs his thumb slowly back and forth, both savoring and loathing the sensation as his rougher skin catches on hers. 

In the corner of his eye, something shifts and turns deliberately in his direction. 

It’s a guard, glowering at him across the room. That makes sense. Ghouls aren’t well liked in most areas and Rivet city seems to harbor an even more intense distaste for them. The sight of a ghoul, particularly one as large and foreboding as he is, in a seemingly physical relationship with a human must be nauseating. 

Honestly, he almost understands. 

That doesn’t stop him from staring the guard dead in the eye as he drops Eva’s hand and, instead, wraps an arm around her shoulders. Eva, for her part, doesn’t even flinch, just leans into his touch as she continues bartering with the vendor. 

The guard stiffens, along with a large number of other wastelanders nearby but it suddenly doesn’t matter. All he can focus on is the warm weight of Eva against his side. It feels significant but he doesn’t exactly know why. All he knows is that he’s lost in his thoughts when she abruptly pulls away just to throw her arms around a surprised and frustratingly handsome stranger. 

…

“What are you doing here?” They’ve made their way to the outskirts of the market, Eva leading with a firm grip on the stranger’s arm and Charon following close behind. 

The stranger shrugs, pulls a comb out of his smock and runs a blunt nail across the bristles. 

“Gotta go somewhere. At least people here still have most of their fucking hair.” He looks a little defensive, looking more at the comb then at Eva. She snorts, a giddy sort of grin lighting up her face. 

“So no gang?” Her smile widens when he rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, not yet. Not everyone’s cut out for the toughest gang in the waste.” He smirks and damn, does that look familiar. How many times has he listened to this conversation in Ahzrukhal’s bar? The bravado, the over compensation. Head strong and usually drunk, these types don’t normally make it back to the bar for a return visit. 

Charon already dislikes this stranger and it’s definitely not because of the way Eva is looking at him.

He shifts, finds himself leaning up against the wall and crossing his arms in a too familiar stance. Falling back into position. He’s annoyingly aware of the distance between Eva and the stranger and how it’s significantly less than the distance between Eva and himself. The man is shrugging off her last question, briefly running the comb through his styled hair to emphasize his casual response.

“At least this place has a decent bar.” 

Eva seems to have forgotten Charon’s presence completely in her excitement to see this man. She catches up the hand holding the comb and holds it up as evidence. “Geez, Butch, look at you! You look great. How have you gotten so tan already?” 

He snatches his hand back, brandishing the comb at her accusingly. “Yeah and you look like shit. What happened?” He’s ignoring her question and Eva laughs, clearly amused. Thick hair, uncalloused hands, no scars. Still as untouched as if he just left the vault, his appearance screams vault dweller. To stay that way, he must spend a majority of his time in Rivet City. There’s no way that healthy skin tone was an accident.

Eva shrugs, “I travel a lot. This is Charon, by the way. He travels with me.” Butch looks him over for a second, eyeing him like he might go feral and then turns back to Eva. 

“Yeah, I’m talking about your hair. Who the fuck did that to you? Don’t you have any shame?” Eva laughs when he tugs a lock, batting his hand away. She half smiles, “I guess not.” 

“Clearly. You leave the vault and immediately go native.” Butch pushes the comb back into his smock and props one arm against the wall, leaning into Eva with the same lack of personal space she’s always demonstrated. Charon bristles. 

“Let me fix you up. Even if the vault sucked, you’re givin’ us a bad name.” His smirk is confident and oily, slicked on like his hair. 

Eva glances back towards Charon. “Yeah, I was gonna get a room. Let me drop off our stuff and I’ll meet you at the bar.” He notices she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t seem to mind his proximity in the slightest. 

“Good. See you then.” Butch winks and walks away, just in time to avoid Charon throttling him. 

…

Now Eva is gone and Charon is alone in their room. She’s been gone for an hour and each moment that ticks by is tearing at him. 

One moment he thinks everything has worked out. They’re back together and she hasn’t mentioned how immoral being with him would be. She’s been affectionate without a hint of guilt and he thought she finally saw what a real employer does with him, what a misbalanced power dynamic truly is. She saw how horrible it could be, how much better it is with her. 

Charon falls back on the bed, feeling like an idiot. They just fought a gang of slavers, killed Lo and survived, and here he is in a dingy hotel room wracked with jealousy for the equivalent of a childhood bully. He recognized Butch’s name, remembers the stories she’s told him about the vault. He just never pictured him showing up again or being as frustratingly handsome as Charon is hideous. 

He stares at his hands, the rough scarring and pitted skin. It makes so much more sense for her to be with someone else. For one, he isn’t a ghoul, he’s soft skin and thick hair and something she might actually want to touch. Charon clenches his hands, watches the skin pull tight over his knuckles, ridged and rough. Disgusting.

But that’s not the real problem, is it? Eva has made it clear she can still be attracted to him, has no problem touching him. What really matters is that Butch has free will. She can want him and know that if he responds, it’s because he wants her back. She can be with him without guilt, without fear that she’s just another slaver taking advantage. 

Charon pushes off the bed, walks to the door and then back again. There is no order holding him here. He could go up to the deck, wander the halls, even go to that fucking bar and see the person he’s scared he might love falling for someone else. 

The opportunity is there but he can’t take it, can’t miss the chance she might come back to an empty room. If she does, she might leave again and where else would she go but back to him? 

He can die with her. 

Charon drops back to the bed, elbows propped on his knees and head in his hands. That’s another benefit, isn’t it? Charon can’t grow old with her, they can’t go out together. Eva will die knowing she’s leaving him to the fate she wanted to save him from. 

It makes so much sense to not be with him and here’s the perfect opportunity to make the right decision. A human from her own vault, someone from her past that can understand her history in a way he never will. How cruel is he to hope she doesn’t? He just never thought of this, was so lost in the budding feelings between them that he never pictured her finding someone else. How horrible it will be, standing silently by as she moves on, just the guard in the background. 

Charon groans, rises and walks the perimeter of the room. No matter what he does, what is happening, Eva is out and he isn’t. She isn’t here and he is. 

There’s nothing he can do but wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I went through the timeline and I think we have about seven chapters left? I hope this isn't dragging on. Thanks for sticking with me and thanks for pushing me to update when I took too damn long! Again, I love you guys so much! We hit thirty chapters today and that would never have happened if I hadn't known you were out there and interested in knowing what happens next. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint. 
> 
> Talk to you soon! 
> 
> P.s. I hope I got Butch at least slightly right. And was anyone else very upset to find the beggar still there after the finale? It was the first thing I checked.


	31. Tipping Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon waits for Eva to return.

By the time Eva returns, Charon has watched her fall in love a dozen times. 

She comes back with Butch, hand in hand, and announces they’re staying in Rivet city. They make a life together, her sly humor blending well with his brashness, they have a child, they grow old. Charon watches from the sideline, a tiny part of him dying each time they return from the wasteland to see Eva fall into someone else’s open arms. 

No, Eva wouldn’t leave her home so suddenly. The two of them return to Megaton and Moira rushes out to greet them. It was she who found Eva half dead on the RobCo steps, she who nursed her back to health. They return to normal but there’s something there, something he should have seen from the beginning in the way Eva melted at Moira’s touch. It happens eventually. They make a life together. They grow old. 

Charon watches the two of them lose themselves in research and the idealism they both share. He stays but he is an afterthought, alone with a pair. A part of him dies every time he walks down those familiar creaky steps, where he first kissed Eva, knowing it will never happen again. 

Someone new comes to town, someone smart and human, someone brave and human, someone clever and _human._ Each time he loses her to a relationship less complicated, to a companion more compatible and he is forced to watch her move on without him. 

Charon was never one to dwell on fears. Years of an unreliable life had taught him to push worries away, to lock every emotion and concern into the dark space in his mind where his parent’s names are, where his brother is. So many memories had faded with the contract’s full activation and even though the trauma of withdrawal seems to have jammed the door, the lock is still thoroughly in place. It’s easy to push away another part of his mind when he’s already used to not having access to all of it. 

Yet somehow this vital part of his survival is refusing to stick. Each time he banishes one fantasy, another comes into play. Every time he erases a potential romance, a new lover appears. Either way she is lost to him. Every scenario forces him to watch. 

So, by the time Eva returns, tucking a newly cropped curl behind her ear and lugging a bag of what appears to be their meal for the evening, Charon is already convinced he has lost her. 

He doesn’t move when the door opens, just stares up at the ceiling, reeling with both the complete discovery of his feelings for her and the immediate loss that followed. 

There is a muffled thump by the door, the usual eerie lack of footsteps and then a soft dip as she joins him on the bed. 

“Are you okay?” A warm hand on his shoulder, he can see her in his peripheral vision but his gaze stays trained to the ceiling. What does he say to that? No? No, I think I’m worse than I’ve ever been. Why did you have to make me feel things again, give me this confusing life full of possibilities I’d written off literal centuries ago? 

It was so much easier feeling nothing at all. 

Those are the words in his head but when he opens his mouth to respond, nothing comes out. Charon closes his jaw with a snap. This emotional whiplash seems to have left him shell shocked and the words just won’t come. He feels almost empty, like the fear has been chased away by her return but it took everything else with it.

“How’s Butch?” Petty. Of all the questions he wanted to ask, that wasn’t one of them.

Eva snorts, falls back with a creaky thump until they’re laying side by side, shoulders pressed together. It feels so familiar. 

“He’s ridiculous as always. I got maybe two words out before he was dragging me back to his shop.” The arm touching his lifts, the soft sound of her rustling her newly shorn hair reaches his ear. “Apparently he couldn’t even talk to me until he fixed this.” She laughs, “He said I’d ruin his reputation.” 

He was dragging her back to his shop, not his room. The sharp drop in his chest at her wording felt like a physical thing. 

Charon takes a deep breath, rolls his eyes at his own fears, wishing being self-aware meant a he had a better chance of making them go away. So far it doesn’t seem like that’s the case. 

He sits up abruptly, props his elbow on his knee and presses his face in his hand. He’d pinch the bridge of his nose, if he still had one. The worst part of this is he knows he’s being ridiculous. So what if she missed him, the absence doesn’t change anything. 

It’s still impossibly unbalanced. All this worry is for something that can never happen yet here he is, acting like a love-sick fool.

“Eva, what is Butch to you?” What am I? The question he couldn’t keep inside hangs in the air, the jealousy in his words thick and miasmic. 

Behind him, he hears Eva sigh. She sits up as well, then stands and paces away. For a moment, he thinks she’s going to leave without another word but she pauses at the door and turns. She looks angry. 

Charon knows he has no right to be jealous, he has no claim on her affections. She’s said more to dissuade a relationship then encourage one. But he still is. It’s still there, this hurt little part of him that’s boiling in his chest, needing something final. 

It hits him what he’s asking for just as Eva begins to speak. A rejection. Even with a lifetime of no control, he still can’t handle this one uncertainty. She needs to rip his heart out of his chest, set things straight once and for all. He needs to _know._  
Eva’s stance is pure tension. Arms crossed, shoulders taught, she looks ready for a fight. 

“Charon, I think by now it should be obvious who I’m interested in.” 

Even with the look on her face, the tone in her voice, it still takes him a moment to comprehend her meaning. Of course, it’s Butch or anyone but him, it always would be. For a heartbeat, he thinks she did just what he was asking for. Told him once and for all that it isn’t him, will never be him. 

And then he finally notices the way her lips have quirked into a bemused smile and her real meaning shines through. She’s watching him with equal parts frustration and affection as he registers first her words and then the consequences behind them. It is the slowest reaction time of his long, long life. 

Charon is a fighter, was a soldier. He is smart and quick enough to make split second decisions in life and death situations but if this were a fight, he would be long dead. 

A moment of hesitation and the ticking land mine at his feet goes off. The half stumble when he steps towards her leaves him unbalanced and unable to take the next punch. The way his hands fumble first at her shoulders and then her cheeks would be enough to trip the wire and set off the alarm in moments. By the time he presses that first long delayed kiss to Eva’s lips, he’s dead on the field. 

But this isn’t a fight. This isn’t a war-torn battleground or a shootout in a crumbling city. It’s a single gentle kiss in a quiet hotel room. 

Eva, for her part, isn’t surprised. She melts into his arms like she’s been there a thousand times before. The second she presses closer, Charon enfolds her, wraps her up as tightly as he possibly can. Any single emotion is impossible to detect at the moment, too much of everything roars like a storm inside him so he just holds on tight and lets it overwhelm him. 

The kiss itself is surprisingly sweet for all the turmoil that preceded it. It starts too rough, a brief clashing of teeth and he feels Eva laugh against his lips before she returns, pressing achingly tender for all the tension he can feel behind it. 

This is still uncertain territory. They still know what stands between them, what challenges they’re going to face, even just how stupid this might be but right now it doesn’t matter. Right now, it’s insane not to give in. So Charon’s hand hovers just above her hip for a split second before he presses down and Eva’s breath stops all together before she sighs something heated and needy against his mouth but they don’t stop, they don’t withdraw. 

He cups her hip and tugs, pressing her closer in a way that makes everything a little too obvious and a part of him is scared she’ll pull away. He’s gone too far. A kiss is one thing but the idea of his body, the obvious arousal and what that means is another thing entirely. His hand loosens just as Eva takes a step towards the bed, refusing to break the kiss long enough to avoid the messy tumble they take onto its creaking surface. 

She pulls away and laughs, even as her hands wander down from his shoulders to his chest, tugging the fabric of his shirt up enough to run her fingertips over the rough skin of his stomach. Charon groans into her neck, breathless both from the kiss and the suddenness of this encounter. Her hands are painfully soft, drifting lower to graze the sensitive skin just above his belt. 

The closest they’ve come to this was that false birthday, pressed together on the old couch in their home but that moment felt like it had a definitive end. This is something else and Charon doesn’t know where it will stop. If it will stop. 

He doesn’t want it to stop. 

Then Eva’s teeth bite into the broad stretch of his shoulder and any questions he has left vanish. 

She works her way up his neck, pressing a final kiss to the underside of his jaw before cupping his face and tilting it back for another kiss, this one deeper and heated. Her tongue grazes his and Charon wonders if a ghoul his age still has the ability to go feral, if he should be worried about the burning hunger building in his core. She tastes warm and completely her own, the scent of her skin, her breath turned into a flavor that he realizes he’s been craving since that first kiss on the stairs. 

“Are you…?” Just a fraction of a sentence escapes before Eva snuffs it out, any uncertainty as to her interest crushed between them. 

Charon cups the back of her thigh, dragging his hand downward to the crook of her knee and tugging her leg upwards. The motion was instinctive, he needed her closer, but it pushes them into a position that feels agonizingly primal. He can feel the warmest part of her pressed against him and he drives downward, grinding against her with nothing but instinct. This is the furthest anything has gone with them, just enough that she could feel how aroused he was, that he could almost imagine the satisfaction of  
thrusting against her without any barriers to stop him from going further. 

It retrospect, it’s so very little. Just lustful contact through clothing but that night it was enough to leave him dizzy and aching. Now he can barely stand it, the distance and trauma they suffered through turning this moment almost desperate in the need for more. 

Eva initiates the first step past their boundaries, tugging his shirt up his chest with one hand as the other fumbles with his belt. He joins her the instant he understands what she wants, practically tearing the fabric as he pulls it over his head and definitely distorting the old leather when he tugs it away. 

The rest of their clothing follow and he’s lost. He’s gone. That dream, so long ago, briefly bursts into bright clarity when he duplicates it, thrusting against her with nothing to stop them from stepping past that final boundary. But it isn’t a dream, it isn’t tainted with confusion and anger. It’s Eva and he’s inside her, engulfed and drowning. He feels her breath against his cheek, her hips snapping up to match the almost immediately frenzied pace and later he will regret that they didn’t take this slower, that he didn’t explore every inch of her beforehand but now his thoughts scatter with every thrust and anything but lust and need and bliss is banished from his mind. 

He doesn’t know how long he lasts, can only count time by each gasp, by the sound of Eva’s pulse mingling with his own. When he twists just enough to bring his hand between them, he’s overwhelmingly grateful for the muscle memory that lets him coax her up and teetering on the edge because when she spills over, she takes him with her. On a different night, a lonelier one, he will wonder what he’s forgotten, how much experience he’s had but right now it’s only Eva, always Eva. He crushes her to his chest as he comes and for a moment, the world goes white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bam! Sex scene. Who saw that coming? (Probably everyone who's been waiting 30 chapters for this to happen,huh?) 
> 
> As always, thank you everyone! You are all so sweet and I love hearing your opinions and theories so much so thank you for sharing them with me. Thanks to everyone who reads this. Honestly,I'm just blown away every time. :)


	32. In Morning Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon wakes up after his night with Eva.

Two days before their disastrous trip to the RobCo building, Eva hit one of her lowest points. 

It hadn’t been particularly obvious the night before. She was listless, quieter than Charon was used to but nothing alarming. He wrote it off as a lingering effect of their breaking one too many boundaries between them earlier that week. They ate and she went to bed a little earlier than normal. Nothing concerning. 

It wasn’t until the next morning he realized just how bad things had gotten. 

He was awake before her, pouring water into a cup filled with Eva’s medicinal tea, wondering when the bitter flavor had started to grow on him when she stumbled down the steps. It wasn’t the stagger of someone sick or drunk but the way exhaustion pulls on the body, shoulders slumped and feet dragging. He remembers her one pale hand, still whole at this point in time, five shaky fingers dragging along the wall. 

It wasn’t to steady herself. He doesn’t know why she did it. It looked…hopeless.

“Eva?” She didn’t respond, just made her way to the bottom of the stairs and then slumped down, curling over to press her back against the wall and drawing her knees to her chest. Charon set down his cup absentmindedly but caught it back up again as he approached her, kneeling down to place the still steaming tea by her side. She was in her bedclothes, feet bare and he can still call to mind the way it felt to reach out to her, curling a hand around her ankle, carefully rubbing the chilled skin with his thumb. 

“Are you sick?” He had been surprised at his tone. Gentle was never a word he would have used to describe himself, wasn’t even something he thought he could be but things had changed by then. He had changed by then. 

He couldn’t see Eva’s expression. Her arms had been wrapped tightly around her knees and her face was tucked away, dark hair falling forward to hide anything her body did not. After a moment, Charon pushed just enough of her hair aside to press the back of his hand to her forehead. She had been warm but not worryingly so. Her breathing was short but steady. She didn’t seem sick. 

It hadn’t taken long to realize what was going on. He’d seen her this way before, that first endless day so long ago and a few less extreme moments since then. The days when something tipped the scale and she shut down, withdrew into some darker place, somewhere he couldn’t reach her. 

Setting the slowly cooling cup aside, Charon had joined Eva on that cold floor. He’d wrapped an arm around her. He’d waited. 

She had stiffened slightly under his touch but when he didn’t try to move her, made no attempt to pull her closer or apart, the tension drained away. 

They stayed that way for a while.

…

Charon wakes from the dream dazed. He can still feel the warmth of her, pressed into his side, but when he shifts to pull her closer (because he _can_ now, he finally can) he finds the bed empty. The heat dissipates when he sits up, draining away in the cold metallic air. 

The room is empty. His frantically discarded clothing is now folded and waiting neatly at the foot of the bed. Eva’s clothes are nowhere to be seen. 

He gets dressed slowly, muscles sore in a way that would be pleasantly new if he wasn’t alone. Any lasting traces of sleep have vanished, pulling the faded memory away as they go. It’s a strange feeling, dressing alone. It’s something he’s done countless times but this time it’s mingled with shame and a dirty sort of fear. It’s seeing evening scenery in bright, harsh daylight. It’s a burnt-out campfire, a spent bullet. He feels empty. 

The door creaks open just as he buckles his belt and he turns to see an ashen faced Eva step into the room. She isn’t looking at him, eyes slipping off him like oil on water and he stiffens. With her gone, the question stayed unanswered but seeing her now, the tight way she’s holding herself, the tendon standing out in her wrist where she clutches at her already fastened pack, 

it’s so obvious. She is the picture of regret and Charon can swear he feels his heart stop beating.

“Morning.” Even her voice is uneasy, wavering softly when her gaze slips past him to flick across the unmade bed. 

“Morning.” Something in Charon goes cold. His chest empties out until he’s hollow. Horribly enough, it’s the first time he’s really felt like himself in a long while. 

This is what he is. Not romantic or hopeful, not tender. He is cold. He is calculated. This isn’t the deadened state Lo locked him in, it’s the shell he was that first night by the campfire. 

Eva takes a step towards him, silent and so careful. She looks like she’s outside, surrounded by enemies she can’t see. It hurts and already he can feel a crack appear, swift and sharp. The pain is coming and damn it, when that flood breaks through… He hopes he can bear it. 

“I think we should head out soon.” Eva glances back to the bed and swiftly away. It’s obvious she wants to leave the crime scene as quickly as possible. Right now, he doesn’t even blame her. 

Charon can see a spot on her neck, a faint purple bruise blooming across her skin that he knows he put there. He remembers making it, sucking at her pulse point until he felt the thrum of her heady moan under his lips. It would be a sweet sight today if she hadn’t immediately lifted a hand to cover it. He gets just a glimpse of it before she notices, jumping like she’s ashamed. She _is_ ashamed. 

Charon feels a little sick. 

They don’t speak as they pack. Eva flinches at every loud sound and finds a reason to flee any time he gets too close to her. Charon finds himself focusing on his hands as they work. They _are_ disgusting. He can picture her waking up, realizing she’s slept next to a living corpse. How repulsive it must have been. 

And she hadn’t just touched one, he’d been inside her. His rough lips and gnarled body, hands that look long dead curling in her hair, tracing her scars. How far she’s fallen, from a clean world with casual touch to being fucked by a literal monster, the perfect representation of this hell hole that’s torn her life apart. 

It had been so quick and desperate too. He’d even marked her. She’s wearing proof of it, must have had to walk past the residents of Rivet city with evidence that his rotted hands had been on her body, his disfigured lips on her throat. 

Apologies almost spill out every time she comes near but what can he say? ‘I’m sorry for tainting you, for touching you. I’m sorry that you’re alone, that your loneliness drove you to me. I’m sorry you realized your mistake too late.’

It’s hard to find the words. 

It’s hard because a part of him doesn’t regret this, can never regret it. He got to hold her, got to express the strongest emotion he’s ever felt. He knows what she feels like when she comes, what she looks like naked and wrapped in his deformed arms and he really is a monster because he wants this, wants to keep the memory even as she jerks her hand away before it has the chance of touching his. 

They leave Rivet City without another word between them and the crack in Charon’s shell starts to spread. 

The fears from last night have started to bubble back up, thick and viscous. Poisonous.

If he has to watch her with someone else, will it help to know what it felt like to be with her? Will the memory be a sweet respite or will it distort into something hateful. Now he’ll know what it’s like for whoever is in her bed, he’ll know how soft the skin they get to touch is, how sweet it feels for them to kiss her. What does it help, knowing what she tastes like when someone else has her flavor on their tongue?

But it was never just the physical aspect, was it? Maybe when she watches the sun rise with someone else’s arms wrapped around her, it will be a balm knowing he at least held her once but it won’t replicate the feeling. It won’t be the two of them anymore and now Eva has this extra reason to pull away. 

He stumbles slightly when the regret changes to something total and complete. 

What if, in her disgust, he’s ruined more than the chance at something romantic? What if she’s so revolted she can barely stand to be around him?

One night together will never be worth losing his only friend.

“Eva?” Charon almost catches her arm but stops himself. She doesn’t want him to touch her so what a fantastic way to start out an apology that would be.

She doesn’t stop, just hitches her shoulders up higher and keeps walking. 

“Eva…please?” His voice is hopeless and maybe that’s what makes her stop. She isn’t cruel. She was never cruel.

They are so close to home but with Eva’s back to him, the bruise he left on her just barely visible, it’s hard to know if there is a home left to go back to. The air is cool and crisp, a sharp contrast to the heat the day before. He walks up to her, chilled breeze grazing the back of his neck like the prickle of fear before the enemy finds you. A sharp anticipation that shoots through nerve endings like a blade. 

Charon watches her back for a moment before stepping around her. He’s tempted to run his fingers over her hair but an irrational part of him thinks she might shatter. Eva isn’t delicate, her softer sides haven’t been worn down by the wasteland completely but she’s not fragile. She can handle trauma and loss and horror but maybe when the soft side of her collides with this ruined world, maybe it’s enough to make her brittle. 

He steps forward so he can see her face, careful to keep his distance. 

Her eyes are open wide, lips parted slightly, jaw slack despite the tension trembling down her throat. Eva’s expression is strange but he’s seen it before. He saw it when she stepped into the shower, dripping blood and shame. He saw it when she came home with a story about children she couldn’t save. He saw it two days before they went to RobCo, when she finally lifted her head to stare blankly at the world before her. 

He doesn’t have a word for it exactly but he knows it doesn’t come from the outside alone. Part of it originates inside, somewhere he can’t find. Somewhere he can’t reach her. 

“Talk to me.” A rational part of him realizes that this can’t just be from sex. She’s touched him so many times, she’s seen his body torn open and she’s seen his hands on her before. This expression is the look of her withdrawing into a personal nightmare and no matter what he thought earlier, he knows it takes something else to push her here. 

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Eva finally turns to look at him. She sucks in a breath and shakily exhales. It takes several tries for her to find the words, mouth opening and closing silently. 

“Did I?” She stutters, glances away, biting her lip hard enough to turn it deathly white. 

“I…was that a command?” 

The wind changes direction, blowing up an icy burst of sand but she doesn’t react. 

“I said I wanted you, didn’t I?” She swallows, grimaces. 

“Was that even…consensual?” Eva winces when she finally gets the word out, clearly horrified just to say it. “Did I…” She trails off, the question dying on her lips. Her eyes are wide and looking at nothing, bloodshot. 

It takes a moment for Charon’s perspective to change but once it does, he’s dizzy with it. The first thing he does is grab her, wrap her up and press her to his chest and it was the wrong thing to do because she immediately struggles to get away again. He relents but catches her hands before she can step too far. He’s being stupid and tactless but he can’t help it. Everything just got inexplicably better. 

“You didn’t. I wanted that.” He laughs slightly, feeling too much to pick anything out in the turmoil. “You have no idea how much I wanted that.”  
She looks skeptical, staring up at him like she wants to believe him but doesn’t. He leans forward, cupping her cheek and pressing a clumsy kiss to her forehead. He tries again. 

“Didn’t you once order me not to touch you unless I wanted to?” She nods slightly and it’s enough. His pitted hands slide through her hair and his rotted lips meet hers in what is probably the worst kiss of her life. It’s rough and sudden but when he pulls away, she’s smiling faintly up at the monster before her. 

“I wanted to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me didn't want to have this one last conflict before Eva accepted Charon's feelings but I just didn't think it could happen any other way. There's no way in hell she wouldn't have second thoughts after that,huh? 
> 
> Anyway, as always thanks to my amazing commenters! Also I want to say,I love reading everyone's reactions to this but thank you just for reading this. To everyone who leaves a kudos or is just reading along, thank you as well. <3
> 
> Also, thinking of writing a oneshot from Eva's perspective but I won't tag it onto this story so if you're interested, keep an eye out.


	33. Returning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon and Eva finally reach Megaton.

Stepping through the doorway of their home in Megaton is both surreal and grounding. The emotions hit him in waves. First a sharp relief, like an icy burst of wind as the door swings open. It is the expected reaction, vivid and bracing. He wanted to return home, knew the hellish experience with Lo was over and knew this was the end point but he didn’t expect the detached sensation that came with distance, the feeling of walking through a set piece, a reconstructed memory. Everything feels smaller. 

He brushes a hand over the cabinet that holds their medical supplies, can see the still half full bottle of vodka that had triggered Eva’s wilted confession. There is no dust to wipe away, everything kept pristine by constant robotic attention. The whole place is untouched. It feels wrong somehow, like it too should have changed as he did. The residue left on him, the build up of scars and trauma and bad memories makes it feel like he no longer fits in the original space. He is shaped differently now and a small part of him thinks there’s no way he can return completely to a place molded over a different version of himself. 

But then he feels the soft heat of Eva’s hand on his arm and something starts to click back into place. Their home will never feel like it used to but he isn’t what he used to be and neither is Eva. It can never be what it once was but when he turns to Eva, he thinks it has the chance to be better. 

She is looking up at him, concern plain and unhidden etching small lines between her brow and he melts. The hug he pulls her into is only slightly hesitant, still jolting and stumbling along the newly made boundaries between them. She folds into it easily, more accustomed to casual contact and he presses a kiss into her hair. She smells like sweat and dust and Eva, like sun baked stone and salt. 

“Are you okay?” The words almost disappear into his chest but he still manages to catch them. Charon nods, sliding one hand down her back as the other settles at the nape of her neck. 

“Do you still want to be here?” Her questions remind him of the first night by the fire, asking if he was in pain, if he hated her. 

Charon breaths out an incredulous laugh, tightens his grip on her and sways as the world again settles into a new position. 

“Of course.” 

“Do you want to take the first shower?” 

This time his chuckle has more humor then question in it. Eva is smiling up at him, like it’s an inside joke between them, and he lifts a hand to rub at a smear of dirt across her chin. 

“Of course.” 

When she laughs, he can feel the thrum of it across his skin. 

…

He does take the first shower after all and something about washing the dirt and grime away settles him in like nothing else. Stepping out of the rapidly cooling water feels like a fresh start.

Waiting alone, stretched out on his bed and listening to the gurgling roar of the shower downstairs however, feels incredibly familiar. 

It started the night Eva took his hand, exploring his skin until he was spilling over with something he couldn’t yet name. He used to think the first kiss on the stairs ignited it but it just gave him an answer, a term for the heat building in his stomach, melting out along his chest and throat. It was easier to say it was the kiss but the desire thrumming along his skin appeared much earlier, bursting into flames from a long hidden ember under that smoky night sky. 

Now as the rumbling pipes shut off and he just manages to hear the quiet click of her bedroom door shut, Charon is at a loss. He has been in this position before, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about who is across the hall but now he has the choice to do something about it. He could stand up, cross that infinite barrier, pull open her door and fall into bed with Eva. 

Before all of this, he barely allowed himself the freedom to think about her in that way but he isn’t holding back anymore and there’s too much he wants to do. 

He wants to touch her hands again and then finish the almost kiss without letting go. Her hair is short now, too wild to stay in the coifed look Butch had put her in and he wants to stroke the back of her neck, taste the soft skin just beneath her earlobe. He could go in there and not rush this time, explore every inch of her or they could just fall into bed again, another fast needy encounter but either way he wouldn’t be alone, trying not to think of the way his body is reacting to the thought of her. He could stand up, cross to the door and be with her, inside her. It would be so easy.

Charon continues to stare at the ceiling. 

Why is he so worried about this? Is it being back here, in this too small memory, that makes it so hard? This house feels like a different life but so does Lo. It’s like he’s trapped in between two dreams, uncertain which is reality or if either of them even count anymore. 

Out there, he was who he had been before Eva and then worse, both ripped open raw by their short time together and then scarred over horribly on freshly exposed skin. It was a nightmare come alive but out there is also where they finally stepped past that last blockade, where he’s kissed her and held her and the first time where she didn’t run away in the end. Out there is where they were together. 

In this house, it’s restraint, it’s misunderstandings. They are cautiously platonic or fostering a forever unaddressed attraction at most. He takes a deep breath, feels his chest raise and fall. 

As he breaths, it slowly occurs to him that Eva will never be the one to cross the hall, not for a long while at least. She has yet to initiate a kiss, needs more time to move past her fear of using him. That thought is what finally pulls him to his feet. Knowing that it’s his choice if what happened outside can continue. She won’t, can’t make that decision comfortably and he understands but still it’s strange having the freedom to do much of anything, much less the ability to be with someone, the choice to go to them, be with them. 

He hesitates at Eva’s door, presses the tips of his fingers into the rough grain of the wood for a moment but he still turns the knob, still steps inside. 

She’s sitting on her bed, legs pulled up and crossed, pipboy unstrapped and nestled in her lap. A faint strain of music drifts from the speakers, tinny and old. They’ve both heard the song a thousand times before and when she looks up with wet hair and a smile, the last strains of anxiety fade as quickly as it came.

This isn’t new. They aren’t strangers. 

The floor creaks when he takes a step towards her but the bed is worse, springs groaning as he settles by her side. Her traveling blanket is thrown over her bed and he feels the fabric catch on his skin, knows the sensation from packing up camp with her, either in early morning light or a late-night escape. It’s familiar. This whole world is familiar. Maybe he just needs more time to remember it. 

A moment ago, he was imagining revisiting rivet city, just two nights past, remaking something hurried into something sweet but now it’s more tenderness then lust that compels him to wrap an arm around her, to fall forward enough to press his forehead into her shoulder. 

There has been so much fighting. Fighting each other, fighting his softening hatred for her, fighting his feelings, his desire, fighting to return to each other and then fighting the moral wall between them. He is so tired of this battle and now, returning home, to this strange bubble of peace, so untainted by the trauma of their separation that is almost feels untouchable, he thinks the fight is finally over. 

The radio in Eva’s lap crackles, little bursts of static in between songs and then a woman’s voice, desperate and sad, ready to sacrifice everything for the one she loves cuts through the air. 

Charon has heard it so many times since the day he was shot, sitting in that dusty abandoned building and just weak enough for Eva to push her way past his boundaries but it’s the first time he’s actually listened in a while. In a way, this mystery singer and Eva are similar, willing to do anything for their cause and the thought is unsettling. 

There are so many things about her that have inspired this still dizzying devotion in him but her sacrificial nature isn’t one of them. He loves her principles, her need to help when someone is hurting, her view of right and wrong but her death wish…Charon doesn’t think that it’s really coming from her. 

It isn’t in her nature or her character because she doesn’t extend that value to others. Instead it seems to be a wrong lesson taught through trauma and as the woman sings about walking through fire, Charon pulls Eva a little closer. She has already set out to save the wasteland and it’s marked her body in more ways than he can count (though he has the chance to count them now and it’s a bitter sweet realization). Now she’s lost a piece of herself rescuing him and found another person to sacrifice for. 

Eva stops fiddling with the pipboy and begins to run soft fingertips over his scalp. He shivers, chest full and aching, and pulls her down with him, curling around her like he can protect her from her own nihilistic impulses. 

Charon doesn’t want a martyr but as Eva sighs and relaxes into his arms, her hand curling into the fabric of his shirt, just one finger and three rough stumps bundling the cloth up as tightly as such little grasp can manage, he is certain that that is what he’s holding. Someone who is too willing to die and it is both beautiful and horrible knowing that he has become one of her reasons to do so. 

…

They stay like that for what feels like hours and Charon doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes to Eva’s quiet voice in the darkness.

“It’s good to be home.” Her words are a near whisper, like she’s being careful to break the silence. He can’t see her anymore, just the vague form of her in the light coming through the crack in the door. There is the soft curve of a cheek, sliced through with a shadow of a scar and dark hair turned a faded gray. Color has bled from the room but here, with her, it only serves to soften the world instead of deaden it. 

He trails his hand up her arm, the braille of her skin alarming in its intensity until he reaches her shoulder, her neck. When his hand finally cups her face, he strokes her cheek with his thumb, disappearing the hash cut with each touch. 

“I’m sorry.” It slips out but she doesn’t question it, just presses closer, wraps an arm around his chest and squeezes. 

“I mean,” he turns to kiss her hair but misses, catching her eyebrow instead and her next breath is quicker, just a hint of delight beneath it. “I’m sorry this isn’t easier.” 

Eva’s hold tightens. 

“Nothing is easier,” She twists onto her belly, propping herself up on her elbows to look him in the eye. He can see nothing but shadow, only the highlight of evening light on her hair. “but this is good.”

In the darkness, with Eva’s warmth in his arms and the scent of old wood in the air so clearly one of home, Charon agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my schedule has gotten a little wild again but rest assured I will answer everyone's comments. They are such a highlight you guys, I love them. Thanks for being such insanely amazing readers. <3 
> 
> Not much to say this time other then thanks and I love you all and I hope you enjoyed it and see you next time!


	34. Snapshots and A Step Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of Eva and Charon's life together and then just a bit more.

Charon wakes. It’s a cold night but there’s a bundle of heat to his left. Instinctively he rolls towards it, wraps his arms around the source and fades into the scent of the person in his arms. Eva. Eva is in his arms. It’s not an uncommon experience now but it still takes him by surprise. Of all the things Charon would have expected to be a difficult adjustment, no longer sleeping alone was not one of them. 

In one way, it’s amazing. After a day in the wasteland, washing away the blood and dirt that serves as the daily face paint of a life outside these walls, stretching out in a bed with a warm body wrapped in his arms is bliss. Eva is so small in comparison and he often finds himself curled around her, face buried in her hair, listening to her breath. 

In another way, it’s hell. Those months with Lo have not left him unfazed and occasionally he wakes, skin prickling with a craving he wants to forget and the sheer presence of her is overwhelming. He wants to bolt, to slip out of her arms and disappear back into what he always thought he used to be. Cold. Stoic. Untouchable. 

Now, having _this_ , having her, it’s more real and solid and humanizing then anything he’s experienced in years. It feels like the beginning to a life and it’s terrifying. Having to set aside his one and only goal, survival, and realize that there might be more to work towards, more than just staying alive? He isn’t certain he can do it. What do people look for in life? Satisfaction? Happiness? It seems impossible. It seems like something he wasn’t made for. 

But just as the urge to flee becomes almost overwhelming, Eva stretches in her sleep, catches his carefully placed hand in hers and pulls it tight against her chest, and he relaxes. He lets go, let’s the barrier fall down, the armor fade, and finally, lets sleep overtake him. 

He isn’t alone in this anymore and it’s a luxury he will have to learn to bear. 

…

He’s moving in her, her breath on his neck, her hands clinging to the muscles rolling in his back. She gasps and he twists, catches her moan in a kiss and presses in deeper. Charon feels her reaction on his lips, the vibration of her soft cry when he speeds up, and he breaks away to nearly snarl into her shoulder. It’s dark tonight and there’s nothing but Eva. Her heat, her scent. He loses himself in the act, falling into the brief near madness that comes with being inside her. 

He is still hesitant to touch Eva, to initiate any sort of intimate contact, but sex manages to tear down that final wall. He wants her, craves this, but even underneath everything, the lust and hunger, just the ability to touch her without pause is thrilling. Contact is such a foreign concept and once he grew accustomed to it, desire and restraint made it complicated yet again. Now it’s accepted, wanted even but he still barely knows how to handle every urge to touch her. Eva can’t possibly want this nightmare looming over her as often as he wants to be near her.

Outside, it would feel strange to reach for her but here, when that questioning part of his mind is drugged on endorphins, there’s no pause before he pulls her close. He can kiss her, run his hands down her back, over the swell of her breasts and hips and the hitch in her breath is enough to calm any doubt. The contrast of her skin against his is still jarring, disturbing even, but when her thighs tighten around his hips and he’s almost blind from the sheer heat and wetness of her, he knows that his presence is wanted. His rotted body is somehow something she wants pressed against her own. 

A more realistic part of him has always known that she wouldn’t touch him as much as she does if it bothered her but he’s given up fighting the feeling. The worry will fade in time but for now he allows it to stay his hand occasionally, to force him to step back when all he wants to do is step closer. Let it give Eva the chance to move past what would only be the natural reaction to his aptly named appearance, as ghoulish and macabre as having a corpse lover must be and let it give himself the chance to ease into the freedom to touch her as often as he wants to. 

But here, now, he is as close as he possibly can be and it is right. 

…

The sun rises slowly this morning, frozen in the air as mist spreads the colors across the sky. A month has passed and Eva has started to bridge the gap between them. She still slips out of the bed each morning to watch the sun rise but now he follows, hovering nearby until she steps back, pulls his arms around her silently as they watch the frigid morning unfold. 

Later she makes tea and tucks her icy hands under his shirt as they wait for the water to boil. He jumps and then smirks despite himself when he feels the light shaking pressure of her against his back, bent over with silent laughter. 

…

Eva rarely goes out without him but when she does, she’s started to bring back gifts. It’s painfully endearing, these careful little tokens. She’s nearly bashful about them, presenting each item like she’s nervous about it, like there is any possible way he wouldn’t be smitten by the sheer gesture alone. 

Sometimes it’s something from a market, like a modification for one of his preferred guns but most of the time it’s scavenged, something strange or unique she stumbled across in the wastes. It’s rarely something they need, more just some odd item that caught her eye. A bag of old hard candies or a strange knickknack she found in a crumbling home. The gifts are starting to take over the once bare shelves in his bedroom, a patchwork collection of her affection for him. 

Months ago, they cleared out an ancient library and Charon now knows whenever she’s been on that side of the wasteland because she’ll return with a book, ancient with water stained pages, but still salvageable. They discover together that it’s one of his preferred gifts, something he never bothered to investigate before, but the moment they do various tomes start piling up in corners, being tucked away in drawers. It’s calming, reading old words from a long dead world, something to do in the evenings, stretched out on the couch with Eva’s cold toes tucked under his thigh. 

It’s pointless and frivolous and sweet. More than survival. More like life. 

…

Today is a scavenging day. The water system in town is starting to rust again and Eva wants to find more scrap metal to replace it. Charon looks forward to it. Even with how well it seems to be going, they are both still so new to this side of their relationship that having something normal, something already routine is a comfort. 

It starts out easy enough, they take less supplies than usual, leaving more room for their findings but the bags are already starting to weigh them down. Metal isn’t too hard to come by in a torn apart city. 

That isn’t the problem. 

Something is happening with Eva, something Charon has started to recognize the signs for. She’s quieter, listless. Her usual stillness is replaced with a restless energy, shifting and anxious but somehow directed more inward then out. It’s difficult to get her attention, even more so to keep it and as the day progresses, it’s harder and harder to interact with her at all. 

Finally, Charon catches her arm, tugs her underneath a still intact awning. 

“Are you okay?” He catches a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear in an attempt to get her to look at him. She doesn’t. 

“Eva…” he trails off, still uncertain what he can say. She shrugs his hand away and starts to walk in the opposite direction they were initially heading. She doesn’t seem to notice the change. 

Charon hurries after her. They walk two blocks before he can coax out an answer. 

Tall ancient buildings loom over them, the hollowed-out corpse of a city. Everything is gray, ashen, and it reflects on Eva’s face when she turns to him, like the life has simply drained out of her.

“That was a command, wasn’t it? Yesterday?” There’s no inflection, it isn’t a question. Just the slightest expression flickers across her face. Shame. 

It takes Charon a moment to remember what she’s referring to but when he does, it startles a small incredulous laugh out of him. 

“The kiss?” 

It was nothing. She had been happy yesterday, playful. They’d disabled a minefield and a nest of molerats blocking a small settlement from some decent farming ground and the victory was infectious. On the way home, they cut through an old Super-Duper Mart and she’d been dashing down the aisles, popping out to try to surprise him. With her eerily silent footsteps, she’d even occasionally managed to. 

Half way though she’d asked for a kiss, sneaking across a majority of the store before he’d managed to catch her. He has been swept up in her excitement, running on the sort of adrenaline that came with a stealthy chase and more than a little thrilled with how comfortable she’d been issuing such a request. The fact that it was a command barely occurred to him and the extra burst of release when he’d finally caught her had been surprisingly pleasant. In short, it hadn’t _mattered_ and seeing her now, pale and eaten up over such a mild offense, is baffling. 

He tells her so but when he tries to approach, dipping in to show her how willing he is to kiss her on his own, she jerks away.

“Charon, don’t you get it?” She’s shaking her head and even through her distress, he can see this is something more. This is that thing that plagues her. The irrationally strong distress, the frantic depression he’s seen throw her a few times before. The sadness that triggers and then quickly builds until it is suddenly boiling over. Yesterday set it off but she would have handled it better if whatever it is that pulls her under hadn’t been lingering at the back of her mind. Charon knows this, can recognize her spiraling now, but still he has no idea how to stop it. 

He feels helpless. 

Eva has worked herself into something resembling panic. She’s pacing, hands tearing at the fraying fabric of her pack’s right strap. “It’s just the start. I can’t have this power over you! Look how quickly, how, when I…” She’s choking on her words, too many arguments and internalized fears spilling out to stay in one sentence. 

“I was going to be so careful and I already failed you!” Eva’s eyes are red, pupils pinning down into tiny dots in her distress. Charon reaches out to her but she jerks away violently, stumbles over scattered brick and falls. Of course, he follows, of course but it’s the wrong thing to do and watching her scrabble to her feet to keep her distance is painful. 

“Don’t! Just don’t. Stop.” Eva’s words are frantic, quick and choked out. Her arms are wrapped tight around herself and Charon can see her nails digging into her skin, leaving nine perfect crescent moons in their wake. 

“I can’t use you like that. I can’t be her, I _saved_ you from her. I can’t be her! I need…” Eva trails off. They both know she doesn’t have to say who she’s referring to. 

This is wrong. This is worse than he’s ever seen her and a part of Charon is actually scared. He doesn’t know what she might do. She’s already shouting, stumbling. There’s no self-preservation in her panic but when he tries one more time to approach her, fighting despite the vague order in her words, he realizes too late that it’s the worst thing he could have possibly done. 

Eva’s eyes blow wide in horror. “No, I don’t need anything. You don’t have to do anything. Just stay there. I’m fine.” And she bolts. 

Leaving Charon behind, rooted in place by her unintentional command. 

…

She’ll come back, she’s panicking now but she’ll come back. Charon paces. It’s been thirty minutes at least and there is no sign of her. He’s been telling himself this for about twenty nine minutes and it’s starting to sound hollow, even in his head. ‘There’ is a vague concept but it’s definitive enough to trap him on this decrepit street. Without Eva’s voice to fill the silence, the world falls empty. Silent. Gray. 

Old steel creaks in the open air and the soft patter of rubble sliding down from ancient crumbling structures sets the scene. A long lonely wait sits before him. Charon pulls in a deep breath, trying not to worry. That wasn’t Eva, it was her sickness, her cross to bear but even knowing this, he still finds himself fighting the anger and frustration with her misused words along with his fear for her. 

After pacing fails him, Charon pauses, leaning back on the skeleton of an abandoned car. He looks up at the sky and even that seems dull, drained of color in this industrial desert. A faint wisp of cloud drifts by, stained a sickly slate like the rest of its surrounding, and Charon tries to fall back into that quiet place of nothingness. The emptiness where time passes without meaning.

But after all those years of practice, he still fails. It isn’t the rough shift of rubble to his left or the sharp creak of steel but their fight that is echoing in his head, so sudden and abruptly cut short that he’s still trying to piece it together. He can hear nothing but the echoes of Eva’s panic, of the words he should have said. 

That is why he doesn’t notice the slow careful footsteps behind him or the hushed, labored breathing at his back. It is why his instincts fail him and what would have been a dead giveaway slips by him with ease. 

He doesn’t hear that final crunch of a heavy boot coming down on crumbling cement. 

It isn’t until the sharp, ice cold blade pierces his side that Charon even realizes he is no longer alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ALIVE. 
> 
> So bad news guys, I have a new job. I know, I hate it too. But GOOD news, amazing commenter Azellma gave me the final kick to keep going with this thing. <3 I was upset thinking I might have lost a big chunk of my readers (the issue with kudos I guess, you never know who stuck around) but then they stepped in and reminded me that there are awesome people still waiting for a conclusion for these two. I hope it was worth the wait <3 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's reading, all the comments and kudos are forever appreciated.


	35. Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This is a gross one everybody,be warned)

“Finally.”

When Charon drops to his knees, it isn’t the knife in his side that cuts the deepest, it’s the voice behind him, low and dripping with hatred. It’s a voice he never wanted to hear again. The voice he thought he left behind months ago, broken and defeated after his god cut him down. 

Charon only gets one foot steady beneath him before Samson knocks him back down with a swift, vicious kick. 

“Do you know how long I have been waiting to get you alone like this?” Another strike, this time in the ribs. 

“Months. But you and your fucking owner stick together, huh?” His voice is deep, slurred. Heavy from drugs and something else. Maybe madness. Charon pushes off on the broken asphalt beneath him, rolling towards the burnt-out car and then using the momentum to stumble to his feet. The wound in his side is burning but it’s not as deep as it could be. Samson wasn’t looking to kill with that attack and when Charon finally sets eyes on his aggressor, he can see why. 

Samson hasn’t handled the months without Lo well. 

Scars litter his skin, slicing haphazardly across his face and the exposed flesh of his forearms. One eye is missing, torn away with a thick chunk of his upper lip and his skin has started to crack, shriveling and soughing off is a way Charon knows only too well. He’s seen it before. Felt it before.

Samson is becoming a ghoul. 

He laughs at the surprise on Charon’s face. 

“Like what you see?” He glances down, flexing his still muscular arms, the rotted tissue bulging like it’s about to burst. 

“It’s hard to get your hands on radaway when you don’t have a fucking chemist around.” He snarls, teeth bared enough to show blackened gums. 

“I thought I was going to die without her.” The slur in his voice grows heavier, thickening with too much raw emotion. “I wanted to.” 

He takes another step towards Charon, fists clenching and unclenching as he spits out each word. His voice echos in the abandoned city, the only sound but for the quiet breath of wind curling around them. 

“But I guess I was just too strong.” He grins joylessly and lunges, slamming Charon back against the rusted shell of the car. 

Two rotting hands wrap tight around Charon’s throat, crushing his groan of pain upon impact into nothing but a shallow wheeze. His grip is strong but even as black spots begin to stain his vision, Charon fights back, slamming his palms over his attacker’s ears. The man snarls but doesn’t let go until Charon’s dull nails dig deep into the weakened cartilage. 

He’s gone through this, the memories of rotting so recently returned, and he knows how to make it hurt. 

Flesh melts, gives way to pressure and Charon rips his hands away, tossing the contents aside with two soft sickeningly wet splats. 

Samson screams, reeling backwards as he clutches at the newly exposed wounds. Only the outer shells of his ears have been torn away but the sensation of your body being torn apart is something indescribable. Charon almost sympathizes. 

Almost. 

Instead, he takes the chance to swing his shotgun into position. He steadies the weapon. Aims. And pulls the trigger to an empty gun. 

Fuck. Normally he would retreat, give himself some space to reload and reset but Eva’s orders have left him rooted to the ground, unable to do anything but wait for Samson to turn his bloodshot eyes back onto his target.

“You…” Pain has spilled into Samson’s throat, dripping off each syllable until the word is more a bestial howl than anything resembling speech. Blinded by shock, Samson stumbles towards the two chunks of flesh, scooping them out of the rubble like he has some hope of reattaching them. He seems to forget about Charon’s existence for a moment, cradling his ears in calloused palms. 

This is a ruined man, his idol dead, his body rotting. A hulking mass curled over yet another loss. It’s pitiful, grotesquely tragic even but as Charon forces one more step back in his minuscule allocated space and one bloodshot eye rolls violently in his direction, it isn’t pity twisting in his gut. As this lumbering monstrosity drops it’s own flesh and stumbles forward, sympathy isn’t on Charon’s mind. 

Survival is. 

He has just enough time to brace himself before Samson strikes. 

A solid wall of decaying muscle slams Charon to the ground and they fight, one ghoul long rotted and another freshly gone struggling in the dirt. Teeth scrape Charon’s neck, nails give way racking across his leather armor, embed in his skin, torn away as easily as a scab. 

Revulsion and pain battle for supremacy but as one of Samson’s mutilated fingers penetrates his fresh stab wound, agony forces every other emotion away. The digit twists, flexes like he’s beaconing for him to come closer and the sensation of the skin being torn, feeling something living rip him apart from the inside out sends a final aching shot of adrenaline through his limbs. 

With it, Charon manages to fight his way to the top, throwing Samson’s hatred drunken weight to the side, and curling his hands around his throat. Blood is spilling from the now deep open wound on his side and he knows this is his last shot. He can’t run away and, with the amount of red staining the ground beneath him, he can tell he won’t be able to stay awake much longer. He has fought in kill or be killed situations before and he knows a final ditch effort when he sees one. His hands tighten, the tendons in his wrists bulging with the effort. This is it. 

He watches as Samson’s only remaining eye widens, bulging in panic when his oxygen is cut off completely. 

Desperate hands reach for his own throat but his grip slackens quickly enough, his attacker’s fingers going numb as Samson suffocates. The reaching hands turn into heavy bludgeons, thudding against Charon’s head and shoulders, thick clumsy blows that weaken with each strike. 

“Sthhh…” spittle foams on Samson’s cracked lips as he chokes out one final…plea? Curse? Charon will never know. Blood vessels burst in and around the man’s eyes and as the last remaining one turns a violent, dying red, 

Charon meets his gaze and watches. 

He watches as his skin stains a horrible shade of purple, as his face twists and distorts enough to tear his weakened skin, as the last gasp of breath rattles out of Samson’s desperate lungs. Charon takes in the utter hatred, the maddening fury, in his stare as he chokes the life out of the man beneath him. 

And then, as quickly as it started, it is over. As the pulse pounding in his ears fades, the world goes silent once again. And even as he stares down at Samson, his hands still resting on the man’s throat, he can tell he is alone. 

A wave of exhaustion replaces the nauseating energy holding him upright. Charon slumps forward, distinctly aware of the wet “schlik” of clotting blood oozing out of his stab wound with the motion. 

His final thought before darkness overtakes him isn’t of Samson. It isn’t of Eva, or regret or love. It isn’t poetic or meaningful. It’s just one miserable truth, echoing in his head, the words blending and distorting as blood loss and exhaustion pull him away from consciousness. It’s simple, endless. 

‘I am going to die.”

And the world melts away. 

…

Charon dreams. He sees colors. Warm things, impossible old world colors. He sees greens that smell like mornings and blooming life and he sees rich dark browns that taste like the heated decay of autumn. He feels soft skin on his fingertips, silky hair against his cheek. Something chemically sweet and sticky under his lips, the sentimental taste of lipgloss stolen through a kiss. He dreams of soft sheets and warm arms wrapped around his chest, of something tender held tightly in his own. He can almost remember first loves, the overwhelming heat of a first time, that stutter in his chest of finding this new impossible emotion and pleasure. He can’t see the eye color but he can see the eyes, see the adoration, the excitement. The concern. 

Charon can see the tears brimming on eyelashes, he can hear the panicked shuddering breath of someone trying to stay calm. The formless dream melts into a nightmare. He can feel ash from a irradiated sky burning his skin, settling heavy and sticky in his lungs. He can hear strangers crying in dark corners, feels bones snap under his palm, tastes stolen meals, copper, and regret. Trembling clammy fingers trace across his cheeks, stroke down his neck to press at his pulse. A hiccuped gasp when a involuntary groan escapes his throat pulls him back completely. He opens his eyes and lets reality spill inside.

A blurry Eva slowly comes into focus. She’s almost as pale as the first day they met, eyes wide and shining. 

“Shit. Charon. Fuck…I…” She’s stuttering, hands fluttering in front of her helplessly. “I didn’t realize. I can’t believe I left you, I…” 

Charon can feel the blooming warmth of a stimpak replacing the pain in his side. Even the ache in his throat is fading. He sits up and rises a hand in protest when Eva reaches for him. 

“No.” 

She flinches at his tone but sits back, tucking her hands between her knees like she needs to restrain herself to not immediately reach out again.

“Do you still want me to stay where I am?” His voice is deadpan. He’s asked her these questions before. When she accidentally issues an order, rephrasing her command so she will know what she’s done, it’s an almost domestic part of their relationship now, a habit to bring some normalcy to their impossible power dynamic. By the look on her face, she recognizes it immediately. Eva shakes her head, dislodging one solitary tear. 

“No.” She sounds ashamed. 

Charon struggles to his feet, pushing off on stiff limbs that should be screaming in pain. Who knows how many stimpaks she used. Judging by the guilt in her eyes, more than necessary. 

The horror of that violent, abrupt moment is settling into his bones. He feels weary beyond measure, nearly asleep on his feet without any of the emotional relief exhaustion can bring. 

“I want to go home.” He starts to walk without looking at her. This is something he will have to address, something they will have to address together, but now just the sight of her is too much. He can’t. Behind him, he hears her rise, the faint shift of pebbles and then the muted crunch of her steps. 

It is a long quiet walk back to Megaton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 <3 
> 
> (I'm so rusty guys, it's insane!)


	36. A complete circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week later

They’re still fighting but the fight is silent. Eva has nothing to say and Charon has nothing to say to her. She creeps like a shadow through her own home, all guilty glances and distant distraction. 

Charon for his part is the hulking monster he’s always been, still and expressionless, locked away in his own space, hiding from the person he cares the most for. He’s angry with her, frustrated at her weaknesses, her erratic impulsiveness. He needs space and she’s giving it to him. 

Moving forward is all they can do but the waiting is hard. There’s no quick fix, no stimpak to heal it. This wound has to scab over naturally and it’s beginning to but right now it’s still raw, healing and itching and awful.

The fight with Samson has left some scars. 

Charon has no marks left from his attack, no bruises or cuts to validate the fleeting bursts of horror when the feeling of skin giving out beneath his fingernails suddenly hits him, claws ragged scratches up his back and itches in his teeth. The scars are elsewhere. 

After Lo, his dreams were almost nothing but broken limbs but now wet flesh, melting and rotting under his palms, have joined the fever, gushing bile undercut by the dry sharp snap of bone. He awakens sick with it, lost in trauma and the vile twist of shame in his gut. 

It’s hard and though Charon is hard as well, he wants to reach out to the only person he’s ever been soft with. He walks down the stairs (presses kisses into her neck, pulls her close for the first time) and sees Eva hovering in the kitchen, pouring steaming water into a chipped cup. She’s leaning against the counter, biting a chapped lip and looking paler than he’s seen her in a long while. He walks by (and his hand is on her hip, curling too tight but desperate to touch her again, to be touched again) and stops at the couch. She doesn’t even seem to notice him, too lost in the heady scent of her drink. It smells so familiar, everything in this place is so familiar and he doesn’t know how he can miss her this much with her standing so close by but he does. Somehow he does. 

His gun is sitting on the table, half assembled and he sets to cleaning it. The couch is ratty, sinking under his weight like it’s reshaping into a form it already knows well. He cleans each piece, swiping a too oily rag over each part until it looks familiar, the same gun he’s used for so long. He shifts (and there are cold toes tucked under his leg, there is a hand sliding down her thigh, burning. There’s Eva, pressed into the cushions with wild hair and bruised lips.) and fights the urge to glance back at her. 

Her mug clinks against the countertop when she sets it down.

She makes no noise when she leaves but somehow he can tell once she’s gone. It’s like a heat has left the room, a presence he’s surprised he was even aware of. His hands finish his goal on their own, mindless muscle memory doing nothing to distract him from the awful pit in his stomach. He leaves the gun disassembled, scattered across the scarred tabletop. 

A part of him wants to follow her, join her in her room and ignore the tension between them. They could just skip the healing process, ignore the bullet wound and keep running. 

It’s not as if this problem will ever fully go away. 

She will always be his employer first, even if they work to move past it, she can control him with a single word. It’s what brought them together and maddeningly enough, it’s also what is keeping them apart. 

Charon drops the rag to the table and leans away, letting his head thunk back against the couch. 

Eva is self sacrificing, desperate to make her life worthwhile, to contribute something to the greater good. Now, with what has developed between them, it seems like she can’t handle being happy about it. The guilt is too strong. She can’t accept the positive aspects of their relationship because it came from what she sees as one of her most selfish actions. 

Charon rolls his shoulders, stretches out his legs until something pops. 

He misses touching her. It isn’t even the sexual aspect of it, though he misses that as well, it’s the small contact that he’s starving for. Her warm hand on his arm whenever she passes by, the scent of her neck when he holds her, that certain type of kiss that’s more teeth and taut lips because she’s smiling too wide to do much more. 

It’s tenderness. 

He can picture what he wants to do so easily. He could stand up, ascend the stairs and find Eva in her room. He could join her on her too small bed and ignore everything. The day she returned, covered in new scars, and held him is still so vivid. The acrid scent of her, the sweat and dirt and stress mixed with the careful way she touched him, it feels impossibly close. And he could do it again. All he needs to do is push past this one fucking problem but he can’t. 

He runs a rough hand over the armrest to his left, callused skin catching at the fabric. They’ve fought before, he knows that, but this feels different. It’s a fight caused by a problem without a solution. The contract is unbreakable, it is a part of him, and that isn’t going to change. 

A week has passed and everything is still wrong. Charon is starting to think it could stay wrong forever. 

Outside, the wind howls and snarls through the wood. Charon is tempted to join in. 

Since the war, the weather has been erratic, violent and hard to predict or prepare for. A matching madness for the society it surrounds. This morning the wind returned, wailing and beating against the windows and doors. The old glass is warped and it rattles in it’s frames, shaking until the windows feel as uncertain as the people they’re protecting. 

Eva is upstairs, the door is slightly ajar and Charon can see her when he passes by, not curled up beneath her table but sitting at it. She is staring at nothing, twisting her pip boy’s volume dial up and down. Another familiar song fades in and out of existence but she doesn’t look like she’s hearing it. A man waxes poetic about his lost love, his deep voice vanishing into the wind with each twist. 

For just a moment, Charon stops, his muscles tighten and his final step is heavy on the floor. He knows she hears it, he sees her body stiffen at the sound, but she doesn’t look up. 

He waits. 

He waits for just a moment too long. But Eva doesn’t look up and Charon doesn’t go to her. Because as much as he wants to, the contract is still in control, he can still feel rolls of skin under his nails and she can still twist him apart with a word. The problem is still there. 

And they both know they can do nothing to fix it. 

…

Charon doesn’t notice Eva standing in the doorway until she knocks. He’s been sitting at his own table, staring at a faded page of a book he’s read before. He knows what happens next but he’s had the same section open for what feels like hours, eyes drifting over the smudged words while he lets the wind blur his thoughts into nothingness. Two soft thumps pull him out of his haze and he looks up the see her peering almost guiltily around the corner. 

“Hey.” She half smiles and he can see her fingers digging into the wood of the doorframe. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been distant.” Eva takes a step inside, still holding onto the wall like it’s the only thing keeping her up. The nervous energy in the room is palpable. 

“Actually I’m sorry about a lot of things.” She lets out a breathless laugh and he can see she’s shaking. 

“But you know that. I’ve said that.” Eva shakes her head like she’s talking to herself, glances down at the floor and back up at him. 

“I love you.” She takes a deep breath, “I just wanted you to know that.” 

Eva blurts the final words out, biting her lip afterward like she isn’t certain she wanted them to come out and she’s trying not to take them back.

It’s a quick and almost casual statement but it leaves Charon reeling. He stands up abruptly, dizzy with the force of it. 

Who cares if they’re fighting, Eva has never said this before and he needs to kiss her or hold her or say it back. Probably all three. Maybe all at once but when he takes a step towards her, she immediately leans away. 

“Charon.” She just said she loved him, he loves her too, this moment should be sweet but her expression is one of fear and shame and it’s that confusing combination that holds him in place. 

“I want you to kill me.” 

And all the pieces fall into place. 

Outside the wind screams but it’s nothing compared to the instant ringing in Charon’s head. If her first conflicting order hurt, than this is agony. Instant pressure builds behind his eyes, throbbing until his skull feels like it’s about to burst apart at the seams. 

He stumbles forward, a distant part of his mind flicking through every option, the contract taking control as it searches for the most efficient way to obey the command. The quickest way to kill her. Charon lurches, clutching at his chair as he takes another involuntary step forward. 

“Eva.” Every word hurts. “Eva, don’t do this.”

She’s crying openly now, knuckles a brittle white as she clings to the doorframe. She wasn’t scared to confess her feelings, to say she loved him, nothing so benign or gentle. She’s scared of dying. She is scared of what she just asked him to do. 

“It’s the last option. I can’t think of anything else.” She chokes on her words, face distorted with guilt and the sharp edges of panic. 

Another step. 

He has to kill her. He’s been ordered to kill her but she holds his contract and he can’t. He can’t just cut her, he has to kill. Kill Eva. 

He thinks he might vomit. 

Charon tastes bile and blood on his tongue. Maybe he already has. 

He takes another step. 

His gun is downstairs, his weapons are in the cabinet by the door. He could just choke her. If he can take down Samson, an enemy significantly bigger than her and with an actual desire to fight back, choking her should be easy. 

His hands ache, the muscles in his arms spasm, he hears the crack of flesh as his teeth bite through the tender meat of his inner lip but the contract has control. It always has. 

This isn’t his body, it hasn’t been his body for lifetimes and no matter what he does with it, if it has held a lover or found peace in a place that feels like home, it belongs to the contract first. 

Charon stumbles, falls, but the fall turns into a leap and he brings Eva down with him. They hit the ground with a muted crash, just another sound bleeding into the roaring outside and the screaming in his head. His hands close around the neck he still hasn’t kissed enough to lose count, the skin he knows the scent of better than his own, thumbs digging into a place he’s found solace in. 

Beneath him, Eva starts to fight back but it’s not enough. She’s trapped by the solid heft of his body, too small and only instinctively trying to survive. 

Charon wants to beg her to stop, to take this back but the words are gone, burnt away by the chant to kill throbbing in his blood. He watches as her face goes from freckled and sun kissed to a deep red. His vision is fading as his body both fights to continue his actions and fights to stop. 

He needs to kill his employer, he can’t kill his employer. 

He needs to kill Eva. He **can't** kill Eva. 

A droplet of water hits her cheek and he doesn’t know if it’s a tear or sweat or saliva. He can’t feel his face, can only feel pressure and force, his body is about to be torn apart, his world is about to be torn apart. His hands are numb but he can somehow still feel her swallow, that one small flutter of movement as she struggles to stay alive, as Eva tries and fails to breath. 

This time, he knows exactly where the second droplet to strike her burning cheek comes from. 

The world is going black at the edges and he watches as her desperate eyes start to lose their force, as the fear fades and her lids half close. 

The movement beneath him ceases, the wind outside continues to howl and shriek, and everything goes horribly and completely dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last chapter! Hold on everyone, we're almost finished!


	37. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter.

Charon’s skull is split in two, his chest has burst open and he can feel his heart beating in the open air, slow, with blood pumping like sludge through overfilled veins. He can feel the pressure building in his eardrums, behind his eyes. He is about to combust and all he can think is this.

He chose this. He agreed to it.

It was the first memory to come flooding back, bright and burning amongst the overwhelming chaos of a lifetime trying to be remembered. He can see the papers, the stack of agreements and conditions, and he can see the the signature on each one. It isn’t Charon, it’s his name, first and last, sketched out in ink that might as well be a deep organic red. 

He signed away his free will. 

They told him everything, what the implants would do, how the conditioning would take months, what it would be like when he had been fully activated. He knew everything. 

He knew he would lose his family, his younger brother, his name. He would be the perfect soldier in a time of crisis, with everything and without everything that title required. 

The knowledge is a pain all it’s own, nausea building up in a gut that has been ripped open, burning his throat and making his skin itch and crawl, the impossible impulse to escape his own existence, his own stupid fucking mistakes. 

He wants to dissolve into his own pain, sink into the disgust and despair of these realizations and welcome the distraction that comes with agony. He could vanish into it, take all his mistakes and turn them into a personal hell, enough to erase the identity he doesn’t know if he wants back but he can’t. 

Because as soon as the thought comes to the surface, others start to push it aside. Sensations, the cool wood pressing into his back, the dull roar of the wind, and the trembling fingers pressing against his jugular. 

His eyes crack open and flood with pale yellow sunlight. 

Slowly, a shadow starts to form in the bright light, a small figure leaning over his body. He is lying prone on his bedroom floor and a very much alive Eva is nervously stroking his cheek. 

“Can you hear me?” Her voice is hushed and blending with the coppery ringing of the strong migraine starting to form but it’s clear enough. Charon nods, wincing when the throbbing in his head intensifies. 

Eva laughs, breathless and a little panicked.

“Okay, good!” Her voice is scratchy, raw and clearly painful but her words are steady. She reaches out a hand, fingers outstretched and eager. 

“Take my hand.” 

And nothing happens. 

Carefully, Charon pushes himself into a sitting position. There was no impulse to obey, no desire or vicious need to reach out and do what his employer has commanded of him. He is bewildered. It feels like he just stumbled into an impossibility, like he tripped but somehow didn’t hit the ground. 

He feels light. 

“No.” And it’s his voice, low, always low he can remember now, but courser as a ghoul. The voice he has had longer than any other. It’s his voice doing yet another impossibility. Disobeying a direct order. 

He feels right. 

The next thing he knows, arms are wrapped tight around his shoulders as Eva both laughs and sobs into his shoulder. 

“It worked. I did it. You’re free.” He can feel her tears on his neck, can feel the rumble in her embrace as she chokes out the words from her damaged throat and it’s all he can do not to return the gesture but as reality kicks in, the truth of her actions kick in as well. 

He pushes her away. 

Charon is furious. 

“You!” He can barely find the words and the shock painting Eva’s pallid face makes the anger catch in his teeth but it’s too much, her choices were too much and even though his words rip and tear on their way out, they force their way through on a barbed wire tongue. 

“How did you think that was okay?” She falls back at his explosion, propped up on her elbows and he can already see the bruises forming on her skin. 

“You tell me you love me and then you order me to do the worst thing you could ever ask me to do?” He’s shaking as he pushes himself to his feet. 

“I had to kill you! I had your life in my hands!” 

Eva hasn’t said a word, just stares as he paces, confusion twisting her brow. 

“You think your purpose is to sacrifice yourself but there are people who care about you. I care about you. You don’t gain value by fucking dying.” 

Charon clenches his fists, then uncurls them when he can still feel her fluttering attempt to breath under his palms. The sensation has been burned into them and he wants to tear the skin away just to stop it. 

As Charon turns back towards her, he sees Eva rise to her feet. The confusion has turned to hurt, spreading bright red splotches across her cheeks as she visibly braces herself. 

“But I fixed it! It worked! You should be happy. You have free will now, it’s what you always wanted!” Her voice is raised, her posture defensive. 

“You think just because it worked, that makes it okay? You want to give me free will? Then talk to me about this, ask me. I thought we were partners but your own self worth is so low, you thought I wouldn’t care?” He’s incredulous, stepping forward with his arms spread like he can somehow physically show her how ridiculous her logic was. 

“What if it hadn’t worked out so perfectly? How would I live knowing that you had died by my hand? That I had killed you?” His voice breaks, falls, scratching rabid claws across the floor. 

Eva hesitates, swallows. Her answer is quiet. A question without infliction. 

“But you would still have been free.” 

And Charon thinks he can feel his heart break. 

“How can you think you mean so little to me that I would be okay with that?”

Eva looks at him and he can tell she has no answer. In her mind, it was worth it, it was finally her chance to die for a cause she believed in. It was the right thing to do. 

For her, she took a risk and found the perfect result and that makes Charon feel like his chest is about to break open yet again. 

In Eva’s mind, she did nothing wrong and there’s nothing left to say about it. 

…

She doesn’t try to stop him when he pushes past her, she doesn’t follow him when he walks down the stairs but he thinks he can hear the quiet thumb of her collapsing to her knees just before he closes the door. 

He leaves Megaton quietly, without interference. 

…

The location where Lo died is burned into his memories but the towns nearby are harder to find. He can’t help the people he hurt or bring back the lives he took under her influence but he does what he can. Hard labor isn’t new for him and building defenses is an almost meditative way to pass the time. 

With the contract broken, memories are flooding back in droves. Within a month, almost everything has returned. It’s overwhelming at times but no one stops to question the giant mysterious ghoul gasping for air and hunched over a half built wall. He takes each one in stride, breathing in the scent of hot brick and wasteland air. 

Once each vision fades, he continues with his work. 

…

Charon doesn’t mean to return to the bar they took shelter in but one glance at the glass stained floor proves that he has. Afternoon light tosses rainbows through the air, a impossibly colorful memory, untouched by time. He stands there, in the doorway, frozen in space for just a moment. Eva hurls a beer bottle against the wall and it bursts. 

The image bursts with it. He closes the door. 

Charon knows the rich artificial aroma of fruit and cream has long faded but somehow it still lingers in the back of his throat as he walks away. He dreams about her laugh that night, stretched out on an empty floor in a room lit with nothing but gray.  
…

He travels, he wanders. He loses his way. The sun rises warm on icy air, it sets cold on distant hills. No matter what, Charon keeps walking. 

…

The glass in his hand is cold, condensing slightly in the warm air. The bar is crowded and mostly unchanged but it still feels overwhelmingly different, wider almost, like his contract had been so limiting it had actually compressed his perception of reality. 

Charon rubs his thumb over a chip in the rim, focusing on the subtle change in texture instead of the old ruddy stain several feet to his left. 

He can still see it perfectly, can still hear the deadened thunk when Ahzrukhal’s body hit the floor, the reverberations of the shot in the air as he finally killed the man that owned his soul for so many years. It feels right being back here somehow, buying a drink with caps he has earned by his own merit, his own decisions. It feels good. 

It’s difficult to recall the body on the floor and not the one that had been standing behind him, still pale and unknown. He had been oblivious to how important that stranger would grow to be, how much she would matter and how much her memory would now hurt. He tries not to think about her now, where she might be, what she might be doing. 

Six months is a long time to go without a goodbye. 

Charon takes another sip. 

He has been reclaiming old spaces in his travels, occasionally making amends but mostly just witnessing. Charon isn’t certain why he goes where he does but it feels like he is learning how to be an active force in his own life, not just a passive presence in each remembered location. 

He drains his drink, focuses on the burn of the strong liquor on his tongue as he drops a handful of caps on the counter. This was the last place he needed to go and now he has somewhere else to be. 

Charon walks out of the Underworld alone, on his own and free.  
…

The house in Megaton is abandoned, the Mr.Handy deactivated and curled like a dead spider in the corner. 

No one has seen Eva for months but they heard she moved to a smaller settlement. Haven’t seen her traveling much, wonder what she’s been up to. Strange seeing you again, you giant beast. How’ve you been.

He doesn’t stay the night. 

Charon finds her a week later, unloading supplies from a pack brahmin into a small general store. Her hair is short, shorter than he’s ever seen it, cropped tight to her skull. She has a few new scars but not many, not nearly as many as he expected. 

He hesitates on the edge of town, watching her as she pulls packs of purified water with tan, freckled arms. 

She looks alive, happy. 

He asks around the settlement and finds out some details. She’s still scavenging but not as much, working on a smaller purifier for the town, adding pipes and plumping to the buildings. The doctor knows her name but it’s obvious it isn’t by heart. 

She’s being careful. 

It takes him an hour to finally approach her, overwhelmed with the fullness in his chest just at the sight of her. Charon didn’t know for certain if the feelings would still be there, if the contract twisted it, but now he knows. It was never anything programmed in. It was always just Eva. 

He walks up when her back is turned. His voice is sandpaper on velvet, it’s tentative and yet full of so much. So much to say, to tell her, to ask. He starts with something simple. 

“I love you too.” 

Eva turns. 

And she smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go. :') 
> 
> I just want to say, from my first commenter (magnificent) way back on chapter one to Beth who just found this story six days ago, you all have meant the world. I'm going to miss writing this but most of all I'm going to miss all of you! Your support and insight have inspired me and made me a better writer. I love you guys. Thank you for everything. <3


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